


The Fox and the Grapes

by Messalla



Category: Ragnarssona þáttr (The Tale of Ragnar’s Sons), Vikings (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, F/M, I don’t mean to sully the honor and dignity of these historical figures, I'm so sorry, Lots of kissing, M/M, Oral Sex, Regrets, Sibling Incest, Sibling Rivalry, Sigurd is a tsundere, There's supposed to be no penetration but screw it, Voyeurism, attempt as historical and saga accuracy, but the actors in the TV Series are just so incredibly handsome, handjobs, sex education with demo, still not so accurate tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:00:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 86,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23852698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Messalla/pseuds/Messalla
Summary: There was once a fox who found some grapes lusciously dangling from above. But no matter what he did, he could not reach it. And so, to ease his want, he told himself, ‘These grapes are sour.’Or in which Sigurd loves Ivar but doesn’t know how to express himself. So he hates him instead.
Relationships: Blaeja/Sigurd (Vikings), Hvitserk/Ivar (Vikings), Hvitserk/Ivar/Sigurd, Ivar/Sigurd (Vikings), Ivar/Ubbe (Vikings), Ivar/Vigrid (Vikings), Margrethe/Ubbe (Vikings), Ubbe/Sigurd
Comments: 75
Kudos: 64





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Assumptions Used and Other Notes: 
> 
> 1\. Historically and according to saga, Ivar the Boneless never killed any of his brothers. Kinslaying was a capital crime under Old Norse Law and Ivar followed the law to strengthen his legitimacy. For that reason, this fanfic uses his Season 6A characterization as a self-deprecating, pragmatic person. (It kinda suits the historical Ivar, although I also love his sadistic, fiery self in Seasons 4 and 5.)
> 
> 2\. Anal sex between free men was forbidden by Old Norse Law since it violates the honor and dignity of the man being penetrated (makes him ‘ergi’). However, there are no other prohibitions. Maybe the Vikings didn’t consider blowjobs, handjobs and kissing as sexual acts, hence the slash in this fanfic. (^.^)
> 
> 3\. There are discrepancies between the saga and the historical records available. Ivar (also spelled as Hyngwar, Yngvar, Inguar, Imhar, Imar, etc.) was described in the later sagas as childless and “having neither love nor lust”. However, the Fragmentary Annals of Ireland show that as Imar of Dublin, he fathered at least three sons and an unknown number of daughters. Since I personally side with the theory that Imar and Ivar are the same person, we follow the Irish records on this one. (^.^)
> 
> 4\. Since I’m also a fan of Alex Høgh Andersen (Ivar) and Marco Ilsø (Hvitserk) from Vikings, we respectfully follow some of the events in the TV Series, to wit: Bjorn is Lagertha’s son and the eldest of Ragnar’s sons, Thora Herraudsdottir (Ragnar’s actual second wife) and her sons didn’t exist, and for the order of births of Ragnar’s and Aslaug’s sons, Ubbe is the eldest, Hvitserk is the second son, Sigurd is the third son, and Ivar is the youngest.
> 
> 5\. Hvitserk is generally considered to be identical to another Ragnarsson named Halfdan (Old English ‘Halfdene’, Old Irish ‘Albann’). “Hvitserk” lit. “white shirt” might have been a nickname or epithet since the name Halfdan was very common during that time period.

It was spring when their guests arrived. They were quite peculiar, for they were said to come from the warmer lands to the south. The man was young but his hair was white as snow. The girl with him was far younger and had hair just as bright but not as white.

Sigurd walked towards the seats just below the throne where his father sat and where his mother sat beside him. Three of his brothers were already there, seated in accordance to their ages. He sat on his chair next to Hvitserk, nodding at his brother in silent greeting.

Then came their youngest, carried aloft on a shield by two strong warriors. With practiced ease, he was settled on his seat, perfectly handsome like the rest of the king’s sons except for his obvious disability. He smiled to no one in particular, but his brothers acknowledged him nevertheless except for Sigurd who refused to look at him. But he neither cared nor needed his fourth brother’s attention for he had already turned to their southern visitors, taking in their unusual clothing and the strange language their servants spoke.

Seeing that everything was in order, Ragnar Lothbrok, renowned King of the Northern Lands, raised his hand, silencing everyone. And then he spoke, “King Olaf, I present to you my sons: Bjorn, Ubbe, Hvitserk, Sigurd and Ivar. One is recently widowed, four have never been married. As promised, one of them shall marry your sister.”

And then he turned towards the girl, perhaps doubting if she was already a woman for she looked almost like a child, her tiny figure dwarfed by her brother’s gigantic gait. But what was important, Sigurd surmised, was not her but the rich dowry behind her, treasures of gold and precious stones, abundant flax and grain and a host of foreign slaves.

“Make your choice, princess,” Ragnar told her, his hand gesturing to all five of them in a sweeping manner.

Without even stopping to think, she pointed her finger towards Sigurd, nay, to his right, to the crippled prince next to him much to everyone’s surprise.

But King Ragnar simply turned to his youngest son and asked, “Do you agree?”

Ivar looked upon her, seemingly charmed by her beauty but more so by her audacity. Clearly, she had disobeyed her brother judging by the grim look on the White King’s face. And so, he answered, “Yes, I agree.”

Afterwards, there was much feasting and merrymaking, for it was not only a prince’s nuptials; it was also the end of winter and the start of the planting season. Everyone prayed to the Gods, particularly to Freyr, to bless the newlyweds with many children and the fields with abundant harvests.

On his place at the great hall, Sigurd ate in silence, observing King Olaf as he spoke to their father. There was a desperate smile on the southern King’s face as he talked about his need of an army, his eyes longingly darting towards Bjorn and his famous elite regiment.

In contrast, the princess was radiantly happy, never leaving her husband’s side. Not once did she look upon her brother and she clung tightly on Ivar’s arm, almost like a scabbard to a sword.

When at last they were to be led to their marriage bed, the princess climbed upon her husband’s shield and the groomsmen lifted them. There was no difficulty on their part for she was very light. They were a young couple indeed, the bride only fifteen and the bridegroom seventeen.

As they were being carried away amid much rejoicing, Sigurd saw her glance upon her brother at last. And she beamed at him, her face sweet yet taunting, daring him to stop her while knowing that he couldn’t. Seeing the defeat in White Olaf’s face, she triumphantly kissed her husband’s hand and leaned her head upon his shoulder. Ivar only blinked softly, a slight smile on his lips, amused.

Later in the night, Sigurd was tormented by the sounds of their lovemaking in the next room. His brother gently guided her on what to do, where to touch him, where to kiss, for his bride was a virgin and had no knowledge of what marriage entailed.

Afterwards, their whispered words started to fade, giving way to stifled moans of pleasure. Sigurd was gripped by an indescribable mix of emotions. Of course, there was jealousy, the bitterness at being passed over by a lady of such quality.

But in the deepest recesses of his heart, there was no doubt that it wasn’t his brother’s place he coveted. For he was indifferent to her sweet whimpers and yet loved her husband’s sighs.

And despite the shame, Sigurd couldn’t help but touch himself for his sex was roused at the sound of him. He closed his eyes wondering what it would be like if he was there instead of her, if he were the one to undo those dark braids, if he were the one to run his hands on his brother’s skin and kiss him so deeply until they had to part to breathe.

He bit his lip, refusing to let a sound escape, his pride denying his desire even as he was driven into the heights of ecstasy. And as he momentarily blacked out, he cursed Ivar, cursed him for making him the way he is. Life would have been much easier if he had never been born, the boneless worm.

-

He had always hated him. From the moment he was conceived, Sigurd hated him.

For even when Ivar was only a round bump on her belly, he changed Aslaug. From the loving mother who hugged and kissed Sigurd every so often, she turned into a cold woman who didn’t acknowledge his existence, delegated him to a nanny who did take care of him but fell short of his mother’s love.

And when he was finally born, Sigurd hated him even more, hated the sound of his nightly cries that stole the sleep from their eyes and robbed his older brothers of whatever was left of their mother’s attention.

It was because of him that their mother started to betray their father for Harbard, the charlatan, who by some magic, healed Ivar of his constant pains.

And when Ragnar discovered his wife’s infidelity, he took what little happiness Sigurd had. Now his older brothers were gone too, gone Viking with the famous Ragnar Lothbrok and his band of fearsome warriors. Sigurd had clung to Ubbe piteously, but their mother pulled him to her, holding on to her son not because she loved him but because of her pride. And their father acquiesced, told Sigurd that he was too young to go, that he needed a few more years to be man enough to carry a sword. When the longships sailed, he was left on the harbor, dirty and alone.

At home, mother was almost always gone to meet her lover. But before she went, she would give him a tentative smile and a soft-sounding request, “Take care of your little brother.”

And each time she left, he had to deal with Ivar, the tiny crippled idiot who huddled by the fire, almost unmoving, staring at the flames with a faraway look in his eyes. And every time he heard Sigurd’s approaching steps, he turned towards his older brother with a delighted smile. As sweet and as innocent as he looked, he filled Sigurd with an unspeakable rage.

Most of the time, he ignored him, gave him a taste of what Sigurd suffered, left him alone to deal with his loneliness. But each time he ran away from Ivar, the rage would always be overpowered by guilt. Every so often, he would tiptoe back into their home to see if his little brother was alright. And each time he did so, Ivar would catch him with his ever-agile eyes and give him a knowing smile. Then Sigurd’s anger would return and their little game would start all over again.

In time, Ivar was handed over to Floki and his wife, their mother wishing to raise him to be faithful to the Gods. It never occurred to her that Sigurd might need guidance too and simply left him to his usual caretakers.

At first, Sigurd was happy that the little imbecile was finally gone. But afterwards, he realized that he needed to see his brother. Of course, he didn’t miss Ivar. Never.

And yet each morning, Sigurd would escape his army of guards and nannies and stalk Floki’s abode. Then he would be on his usual spot, always hidden from view, watching his brother listen to the great boatbuilder in rapt attention, watching as Ivar’s mangled legs were comforted by Helga’s gentle hands and the ointments she massaged onto his skin.

And then, a new feeling awakened within Sigurd, a feeling even worse than rage. It was jealousy: vicious, gnawing jealousy eating at his tiny heart. But he was very surprised upon realizing that it wasn’t Ivar he was jealous of. For his bitter thoughts were directed towards Helga whenever she cradled his brother in her arms, whenever she wrapped his legs with soft cloths before tying them up with layers of leather for better protection. Sometimes it was directed towards Floki himself, whenever Ivar’s eyes were on the boatbuilder wide with wonder and admiration.

During those moments, Sigurd dismissed the unexpected pain and ran away like he always did. He had no reason to take his brother away from them. He was no skilled healer nor was he a divinely-gifted storyteller that could enrapture Ivar and take him into the magical realms of Gods, dwarves and giants.

And so, when Ivar was home, there were no words of love from Sigurd’s lips, nothing that could surpass what Floki and his wife had given his brother.

Sigurd knew that Ivar’s disability made him, at times, a target of ridicule. He might be the king’s son, but common people would sometimes laugh behind his back. And no other children wanted to play with a cripple. He hindered everyone else’s fun and they went on with their games ignoring him completely. Each time it happened, Sigurd imagined himself coming to his brother’s side, but he was always too late – Ivar would be swept up by either Floki or Helga or Aslaug herself. And each time his intentions were thwarted, Sigurd’s affection would be killed once more by a raging hate.

And then it so happened that when his guardians were absent, Ivar was pushed onto the ground by a slave boy even bigger than Sigurd. At that moment, his mother’s words rang clear in Sigurd’s mind and he came close enough to try and defend his brother. But Ivar simply swung his axe, killing the offending child with a single blow. Holding his blood-stained weapon, Ivar turned to him, his eyes no longer twinkling for Sigurd the way they used to. He might be a cripple, but he never needed Sigurd, never needed his love and definitely not his protection.

All of a sudden, Aslaug appeared out of nowhere and ran towards her favored son, muttering words of remorse for leaving her beloved child alone, cursing the dead slave for daring to assault a prince. As she took his brother away, Sigurd felt something tug at him. It was neither rage nor jealousy but it felt just as painful.

When their brothers returned after their long absence, Sigurd thought that he would finally be relieved of his pains. With Ubbe and Hvitserk around, he would never be alone again and the memory of Ivar’s fading smile will soon be forgotten. And why would anyone want to see that cripple’s smile anyway? The disgusting little shit.

As the years passed, their father and mother drifted farther and farther apart. And so Ragnar spent his time raiding year after year while Aslaug sat on the throne ruling in his stead.

“Take care of your brothers,” she told Ubbe each morning before she received visitors and settled disputes.

Ubbe wordlessly accepted the task as he cared for his brothers with a wisdom beyond his years. He managed the household, supervised the servants and looked after everyone’s needs, made sure they were clean and well-fed. Each night, he called on his brothers, making sure everyone was present and safely tucked in their beds. And before he lay down to sleep, he would feel Ivar’s forehead and asked him if he felt any pain.

And Hvitserk, sweet, easy-going Hvitserk, concocted infinite ways of having fun. He would steal some mead for everyone to drink, picked some mushrooms that made everyone high. One time, while all of them wore disguises, he fed his terrible stew to the Blacksmith who spat and cursed at the four of them. Hvitserk had carried Ivar on his back with great difficulty as they escaped the man’s wrath. Once safe, they sat beneath the canopy of trees, their sides painful with laughter as their voices echoed throughout the forest.

It confused Sigurd that their older brothers never resented Ivar for stealing their mother’s love. And then he realized that even though they too were abandoned by Aslaug, Ubbe and Hvitserk had their father’s love, had accompanied him on his adventures. It was Sigurd who was completely unloved by both their father and mother; it was he who had always been alone.

At that moment, Ivar raised his eyes to meet his. Sigurd looked away, shame and anger bubbling from within. He didn’t want Ivar to know of his loneliness, the boneless wretch.

And yet, despite doing so, he was overpowered by the desire to look at his brother’s face once more. And so he did and found that Ivar was still looking at him.

Apparently, he couldn’t handle the pain in Sigurd’s eyes, for this time, it was Ivar who looked away.

As the seasons changed year after year, so they also grew and bloomed into manhood, losing their virginities to willing wenches. Ivar was the exception. He always kept to himself, never showing a hint of lust towards anyone. Not even towards sweet Margrethe.

Ubbe, ever-responsible, thought aloud of their youngest’s well-being – Ivar just passed his fifteenth year and he must prove himself a man. And so, arrangements were made with the slave and they left Ivar in her care. As his brother spent his night on her bed, Sigurd remained awake as the old, familiar pain in his heart whispered at him, mocking him.

The morning after, Margrethe confessed of what had transpired, of how his brother just lay there like a dead fish and couldn’t get it up no matter what she did, of how he raised a knife to her throat and coldly told her that she would die if she told anyone of his inability. Greatly relieved, Sigurd laughed out loud and gave her the gold as he had promised.

Days later, he found Ivar casually lying to their brothers about that fateful night. Giddy with his discovery, Sigurd merrily shook his head and told them the truth. Ubbe immediately reproached him for being mean-spirited while Hvitserk stood up, summoned their brother’s guards, and instructed them to take him away for a while. Ivar didn’t protest at being hauled out nor did he speak for he must be very angry indeed; and his face remained blank, the same countenance he always wore whenever he was trying to hold his emotions back.

At that moment, Sigurd regretted his frank speech. No matter how happy he was of his brother’s failure, he shouldn’t have exposed his shame to everyone. But before he could apologize, Ivar was gone and Ubbe had sighed, the same long-suffering sigh he always made whenever his little brothers were too unruly.

After a few moments, Hvitserk spoke, “What if he really can’t?”

“He is a son of Ragnar Lothbrok,” Ubbe told him. “I’m sure he will find a way.”

A long silence fell upon them, broken only when Hvitserk stood up and said, “Maybe I should help him.”

Ubbe’s brows rose to that. “How?”

“I’ll find a way.”

Suddenly, Sigurd was afraid. But Ubbe only nodded in approval allowing Hvitserk to do as he pleased.

That afternoon, Sigurd did what he always did, but this time, it was not Ivar whom he kept an eye on but Hvitserk. He followed him into the forest where their old hunting lodge stood, followed him onto the riverbank where they used to play as children.

And then, there was Ivar, sitting on the protruding roots of the familiar great oak near the cabin, his useless booted feet dangling just above the water. On his hand was his knife, bloody and sharp, carefully gutting a rabbit in such a way that its life was prolonged despite the agony. Seeing the cold satisfaction in his brother’s eyes, Sigurd realized that Ivar had wanted to kill him for his insult, and yet he couldn’t since kinslaying was a crime against the Gods. Apparently, the rabbit had taken Sigurd’s place as a sacrifice.

All of a sudden, Hvitserk appeared from behind, waved the guards away, and tiptoed towards his younger brother. When he was near enough, he pulled the rabbit away and threw it to his hounds which devoured the poor animal alive. Then without warning, he wrapped an arm around Ivar’s waist, his other hand covering his brother’s eyes. “Guess my name,” he said, teasing.

“Let me go, Hvitserk,” Ivar sighed. There was a sharpness in his voice, but apparently, their older brother was too airheaded to notice.

Chuckling, Hvitserk removed his hand from Ivar’s eyes and proceeded to hug his brother so tight until Ivar yelped in pain. Then he laughed some more, loosened his embrace, and placed an apologetic kiss on his little brother’s cheek. And then he let him go only to sit close beside him, one arm slung over his brother’s shoulders, unperturbed by the knife still on Ivar’s hand.

Still hiding in his secret spot, Sigurd felt his chest clenching in pain, the same pain he felt whenever his younger brother was held by someone else. At that moment, he envied Hvitserk’s boldness, the way he disregarded the dangers and got what he wanted in the end. It was a gift from the Gods, his temperament. Something that Sigurd didn’t have.

“So you can’t satisfy a woman,” Hvitserk started. Ivar didn’t respond, his face still devoid of emotion. “I don’t believe it. Maybe Margrethe doesn’t suit you. She is a good girl but neither wise nor skilled.”

Ivar looked to his brother and Hvitserk continued. “You see, there are lusty men who can do it with anyone, even with women they don’t particularly like. But there are men who need to be coaxed into it. Maybe you belong to the latter and she simply lacked the discernment.”

Sigurd saw his younger brother blink softly to that, his head slightly tilting with curiosity. Now he was interested just as Hvitserk had intended. “And? How does one get coaxed into it?”

“Kissing and touching, lots of it, until you get in the mood,” Hvitserk told him.

Ivar seemed to consider it, his brows knotting before separating once more, and said, “Margrethe did that. I didn’t like it.”

“Maybe she didn’t do it properly. Try with me if you want, then you can compare.”

Sigurd sucked his breath, surprised. Surely, Hvitserk didn’t mean what he just said.

Ivar nodded in assent, his knife safely tucked away. And when he was ready, Hvitserk leaned towards him, closer and closer until their lips were touching.

At that point, Sigurd couldn’t take it anymore. He immediately stood up to stop his older brother from what he was about to do. However, his shoulder was gripped by a firm hand. When he turned, there was Ubbe, gesturing him to keep quiet. As confused as he was, Sigurd couldn’t disobey their eldest brother. And so, he was left raging on the inside, unable to do anything but watch Hvitserk guide their youngest brother to lie down on the great tree’s roots.

As his older brother hovered over him, Ivar closed his eyes, his fingers squeezing the moss out of the oak’s wood. And Sigurd understood that his little brother was afraid, the same fear that Sigurd had each time he first tried the unknown.

But then, Hvitserk touched his forehead to his brother’s, nudged their noses playfully, and said, “Open your eyes, brother.” When Ivar did so, he smiled and placed another kiss on his younger brother’s lips. “Don’t be afraid. It’s only me.”

Hearing his brother’s words, Ivar breathed a nervous laugh. Hvitserk placated him further with a familiar kiss on the cheek, a hand running through Ivar’s hair loosening his short braids, another kiss on the nose, the eyelids, and finally on the lips. Afterwards, he cupped his younger brother’s chin, fingers on his bottom lip as he coaxed him to open. And when Ivar did so, Hvitserk took the opportunity to slip his tongue in, locking their mouths intimately.

Sigurd bit his lip at the sight. Each moment was torture and yet he couldn’t tear his eyes away.

Finally, they parted, a wet trail forming between them. Hvitserk placed another kiss on his brother’s lips and said, “Now, I’m going to touch you. Just complain if you want me to stop.”

Ivar nodded breathlessly, cheeks flushed, mouth slightly parted.

Hvitserk kissed his brother again, now lightly, now deeply, as his hands travelled down. When he unlaced Ivar’s breeches and touched his member, he chuckled lightly and whispered, “Who says your prick doesn’t work?”

“It – it’s working?” Ivar murmured, seemingly drunk.

“It definitely does,” Hvitserk told him. “Here. Touch it, brother.”

“Like this?” Ivar asked, tentatively touching himself.

“Yes, like that,” Hvitserk affirmed, now pressing kisses on the sides of his brother’s face.

“It feels better when there’s oil to slick it with,” Hvitserk said. But when he slipped his hand on his pocket, he didn’t find what he was looking for.

In their secluded corner hidden by the shadows, Ubbe nudged Sigurd and asked, “You have any oil?”

“No,” Sigurd answered, his voice almost shaking. He had almost forgotten that his brother was there.

Their assistance, however, was not needed because Hvitserk captured their youngest brother’s lips once more, kissed him deeply again and again, his hand gently squeezing his brother’s hardened sex, his thumb playing with the tip spreading the wetness therein. And then he asked, “Can I kiss you right there?”

“Yes,” Ivar whispered in reply, almost inaudible.

Sigurd swallowed hard, his fists clenching as Ivar’s head fell back, Hvitserk’s mouth tracing his neck and down, further down his brother’s still-clothed body, until he reached his objective.

At that moment, Sigurd regretted his position, for he could clearly see how Hvitserk’s nimble tongue did its magic, how his lips enveloped their younger brother, causing Ivar to mumble incoherently and tangle his fingers with Hvitserk’s braids.

To his horror, Sigurd could feel his own sex stiffen. And no matter how hard he chastised himself for it, he couldn’t help but wonder how Ivar would taste like, if he would fit into Sigurd’s mouth. Crippled he may be, but his little brother was big and strong down there. He wasn’t sure how Hvitserk did what he did. Still, if Sigurd were capable, will Ivar moan for him the way he does for Hvitserk? Will he lose control and thrust onto Sigurd’s mouth as well?

Sigurd winced, not liking the direction of his thoughts. His reality was even worse for there was no way he could relieve himself, not when Ubbe was beside him. Their eldest brother seemed unaffected by their brothers’ acts. He simply looked at them with the same dispassionate stare he always had. 

And then Hvitserk stopped moving, his brother’s member buried to the root within him. Ivar shuddered, eyes squeezed shut, both hands firmly holding his brother’s head in place. Sigurd surmised that he already reached climax, and maybe Hvitserk simply swallowed it all.

When Ivar’s hands finally loosened its grip and Hvitserk raised his head, Sigurd proved his idea right. For there were no remnants of his younger brother’s release on his softening sex but there were a few left on Hvitserk’s lips, glistening droplets as white as his favorite shirt.

And when Hvitserk came up to him, his fingers closing his brother’s breeches, Ivar pulled him in for a long, deep kiss. Perhaps it was due to gratitude, perhaps love. Sigurd couldn’t tell.

And then their lips parted once more and Hvitserk asked, “So, how was it?”

Ivar gazed at his brother dreamily for a while, and then replied, “So good, I can’t describe it. I’ve never felt anything like it.”

Hvitserk chuckled, a bit hoarse. “I’m glad. In truth, I didn’t know what I was doing. A man’s cock is indeed very different from a woman’s cunt.”

Ivar laughed at that, so did Hvitserk. Ubbe did the same but quietly, a proud smile on his face. Then he slapped Sigurd’s back and whispered to him, “See? Our little brother can do it. Now all he needs to do is bed a woman.”

When his elder brother finally left, Sigurd fled as fast as he could and immediately searched for Margrethe. And when he found her, he dragged her into the stables and thrust into her without warning. As she yelped and struggled beneath him, he remembered Ivar’s lips wet and swollen with kisses, his cheeks flushed with arousal, his eyelashes fluttering into a close as he came, his voice soft as a song.

As he grunted his release onto the poor, hapless girl, tears fell from his eyes, hot tears of rage and bitterness and self-loathing. And in his mind, he repeated the words over and over, _Curse you, Ivar_ , _you useless, puny, boneless wretch! May you die in the most shameful, most painful manner and rot in Helheim till the end of time!_

-

Sigurd awoke to the sound of horns being blown. After speedily dressing himself, he ran towards the harbor and found Bjorn bidding goodbye to everyone, with fifty ships ready to set sail at his command and another fifty from his ally-kings.

Hvitserk was also there, sword and ax on his hips and his trusty shield on his back. He kissed his mother, and then Sigurd, promising them gifts from the great city of Rome. And then he embraced his youngest brother, kissed him and teasingly said, “Stay safe and see, for upon my return I shall bring home a wife. For how could you marry before me, brother?”

Ivar smiled at that and touched his brother’s face. “I pray that you will.”

And then he turned towards Ubbe, embraced him tight, and kissed him as well. “Safe travels, brother.”

After sweeping his eyes over his family one last time, Hvitserk made his way into one of the ships and stood strong beside their eldest brother. At Bjorn’s signal, the horns sounded once more and they sailed away.

As the ships disappeared into the horizon, Sigurd saw King Olaf sigh resignedly, staring at his new brother-in-law with a barely-concealed discontent. But there was nothing he could do but accept fate.

And so, as they convened together upon the great hall, King Ragnar and his guest king renegotiated the bride price, a smaller army instead of half of the great fleet that had just left the northern shores. The White King accepted it with good grace. His sister was a free woman and must have a husband of her liking, although her choice was very strange indeed.

“Then our business on this matter is concluded,” said King Ragnar. Then he turned to his newly-wedded son and spoke, “You must help your brother by law with the plans. After all, those men to accompany him serve under you. It is your duty to see to their safety and the rewards they will receive after such incursions.”

Ivar nodded to that, turned to King Olaf, and asked, “Who are your enemies and what is the size of their armies? Where shall you fight? Are there any mountains and rivers? How high and how deep? How forested is the land? How fortified are their cities? We must know all these things and then we can plan. For even the smallest warband can decapitate the largest foe when used well and wise.”

Upon hearing the prince’s words, the White King blinked, stunned. Sigurd thought that Olaf must have never expected such words from a man so young. And when he got over his initial shock, he smiled as he had never smiled before, his countenance truly pleased and relieved. His sister proved herself to be far-sighted and prudent and this may yet end well for him.

King Olaf turned to his people and said aloud, “We shall delay our return to Eir’s Land for a few more days.” Then he turned back to Ivar, held his hands, and said, “I will hear your advice, my dearest brother.”

On his silent corner, Sigurd saw the pride in his father’s eyes and even in Ubbe’s. He couldn’t deny that he felt the same thing as well, for his younger brother’s apparent wisdom had long been an honor to their name. And yet there was also the ever-creeping loneliness that had been on his heart ever since they were children. Now, Ivar had a wife and another brother and Sigurd will be pushed further and further away from his sight.

And so, he quietly clenched his fist under the table, clenched so hard until it bled, the new pain distracting albeit only partially. And in his head, he told Ivar, _I don’t want you. I don’t need you._

It all rang hollow and false but still he told his brother silently as he did many times before,

_I don’t love you._

-

_tbc_


	2. Chapter 2

The first raid was uneventful, perhaps only a test, but it brought back immense treasure different to those taken from England or great, old Paris.

Before it happened, the raiders were disgruntled, quite angry. They were all free men – no one, not even King Ragnar himself, had the right to compel them to travel to some distant kingdom with no assurance of reward. They didn’t want to serve under the banner of a foreign king they didn’t owe allegiance to. And they certainly refused to pledge their lives to some cripple who had only watched raids from afar and never fought within it, not even if said cripple was the prince who oversaw the lands where their very houses stood upon.

And so, the night before the White King’s first departure, they gathered outside the great house, refused to enter but refused to leave until their fury was satisfied.

When Sigurd first saw the assemblage of men, he was alarmed and rightly so for they seemed ready to kill anyone and everyone who dared stand up to them. But Ivar who sat in their midst simply listened to their grievances. And when they were finished, he said unto them,

“You are right to be loth. And you are free to choose to raid or not to raid. But if you decide to do me this favor, all the treasures and captives you plunder from that land will be yours. I have spoken to my father about this and he agreed.”

Seeing that the complaints have quieted a little, mingled with self-interested curiosity, he continued, “All I ask from each of you is one token from your riches, and that for this endeavour, you do as I say. So who wants to go?”

The offer proved to be very tempting, especially since Ivar had worn a three-chained necklace from his wife’s homeland, curious little golden wreaths intricately woven and set with gemstones of shining white and the deepest blue, the likes of which they had never seen before, a promise of what was about to come. And so, even as they grumbled, most of the men mumbled their assent. There were those who left, and still there were men who neither assented nor walked away.

Then Ivar raised his hand and a servant gave him a piece of wood. The men looked and looked, so did Sigurd. But there was nothing special about it: just a chopped piece of oak with a knife stuck on it. And then Ivar spoke once more. “All of you are experienced raiders and yearn for Valhalla, but I want each of you to return to our shores safe and alive, for there are greater rewards yet to come.”

Upon hearing such words, the men didn’t seem so sullen anymore. After all, they were promised all the loot they could get. No leader had ever given them so much or even cared if they lived or died. Seeing that the men were now intently listening, Ivar continued, “Still, the land is unknown to us and your numbers are few. And since I cannot be there with you, hearken to me for I shall instruct you tonight.”

With that, he divided them into groups of ten, each with one leader and nine members. And then he bid each of the tens to come to him and for each group, he carved a line on the wood. Some men who had been watching on the sidelines started to join their ranks, perhaps lured by the prince’s words or simply curious with his actions. When everyone had been accounted for, there were eight lines therein.

And he said, “Remember your groups well, be with your companions at all times. Defend each other, account for each other, and never leave a man behind. Never break away from each other even within a shield wall. And while you’re at it, leaders, look upon the land and tell me what you see when you return.”

When the mob was finally dispersed, Sigurd saw his brother sigh deeply, quite tired. For a moment, he briefly glanced at some of the men who remained at the side. They seemed hesitant, but they started to walk away one by one, albeit very slowly.

Ivar ignored them and then summoned the guards to carry him home. But once he reached inside, he told one of the servants, “Bring me eight red ropes and one black.”

At first light, King Olaf was on the harbor with his soldiers and the three ships of Vikingrs from King Ragnar’s domains. But before they could sail, a group of nine men ran into the harbor and said, “We were originally part of this expedition. We would like to go on this raid.”

There was no waiting for Ivar immediately nodded and gave eight of the newcomers a red rope, the ones he had prepared the night before. He had it tied on their arms like bands. And then he summoned the eight leaders of his troops and said to them, “These men will be their own regiment but they will report to you. Hence, you must choose one scout for each group and remember his face well.”

And when the leaders have chosen their scouts, Ivar said, “Scouts, you will survey the land ahead of the rest. Warn everyone in advance of the dangers or treasures that you see so that the leaders may decide their actions correctly.”

The last man looked around, bewildered and said, “What about me?”

And Ivar gave him the black rope, beckoned him to wear it, and said, “You will be an extra guard for my brother Olaf. You must stay by his side at all times.”

When he saw the men look at him with astonished faces, he simply told them, “Now your numbers are complete. Safe travels and may the Gods be with you.”

Finally, the harbor was empty and Ivar had returned home quietly, stared at last night’s piece of wood with the etched lines. He took his knife and etched some more, but Sigurd couldn’t make the figures out. After a few moments, he fingered his carving, wrapped it with a piece of cloth and placed it on the table. Then he took a piece of pine from the log pile, and started to sculpt.

Gazing upon his brother’s form, Sigurd pondered about the recent happenings, wondering greatly at his father’s decision to accept King Olaf’s suit. It was as though Ragnar had deliberately endangered Ivar’s life in exchange for the southern king’s riches. The dowry was immensely great, but that was hardly worth incurring the wrath of his own people. It was fortunate that Ivar had convinced the men to do his bidding – a close call stopping a potentially violent revolt.

It’s not only Ivar’s life that was endangered for the princess could have chosen any one of them. Sigurd was definitely happy that she did not choose him. Even now, he still couldn’t see himself quelling the rage of such an unruly mob, a large mob at that. Sigurd’s own domain was larger than his younger brother’s so the size of the rabble would have been doubled. The more he imagined it, the more he was convinced that he would have been torn to pieces by his own men.

And yet, looking at his little brother as he sat by the fire, Sigurd felt that Ivar was somehow grateful that the princess chose him. And as he watched him whittle at the fragrant wood, there was something in his face – patience, curiosity and a blossoming ambition. There and then, Sigurd realized that his brother had been waiting for that precise opportunity, had been waiting for the chance to carve his own fate. 

Upon the White King’s leave, Ivar’s married life started to settle replete with the changes made by his new bride. For Olaf’s sister was a jealous woman, like a dragon guarding her treasure hoard with a passion and a vengeance. And unlike Sigurd, she had no compunctions on saying her true feelings aloud.

It started to show when she sat with them during the morning meals. Queen Aslaug had asked her why she chose her youngest in the faces of all his brothers. After all, it was not customary that the younger son should marry before the elder. And it was strange that of all the princes, she would choose the one who cannot walk.

Floki, who sat beside the king, tried to answer for her with the familiar story. When the giantess Skadi asked for a husband among the Gods, she was made to select based only on his feet. And so, she chose the one with the shapeliest feet and legs, for it would surely belong to Baldur, the handsomest of the Aesir. To her surprise, those beautiful legs belonged to Njord, the Sea God. So thus was revealed – a man cannot be judged only by one aspect of him but by his entire self.

However, the princess had a mind of her own and said, “I have not thought about that at all, good friend, for my reason is simple. He had no use of his legs, that’s why I chose him. Because of the way he is, he cannot run away from me, nor can he chase after other women. And that is to my liking for I want a husband that is mine and mine alone.”

Surprised at her words, everyone paused their eating, even King Ragnar.

And then Ubbe asked, “What if other women come to him?”

To that, she only smiled and said, “I know how to use an axe. I will strike them down.” When she resumed eating her mutton, Sigurd felt as though she was gnawing on his insides.

Ivar had paused as well, weighing her words. And then he smiled gently and said unto her, “I am glad that my defect doesn’t repulse you, dear wife.”

And she laughed daintily, a pleasant yet ominous sound. “If you had feet like the rest, sweet husband, I would have chopped them off.”

But none reproached her for she did take care Ivar, truly served him, perhaps even more than what was expected. She poured his wine and cut his meat, and when the meal was over she waited on him, never left his side. She helped him as he bathed, gently soothed his deformed feet the way Helga once did, and took care of his needs like a nanny would to her charge. Unlike a nanny however, she would not allow another woman to come close to him save for Aslaug and Helga. Thus, all servant girls were banished out of the new couple’s dwelling, replaced entirely by men.

Sigurd noticed that Ivar simply let her be. After all, as the holder of his wife’s riches, he had to do his part of the bargain and satisfy her little oddities.

And held her dowry he did, for he made use of it immediately. He spent the gold to build ships and had the flax woven strong into sails. He had half of her grain planted on his fields, the other half stored for food, her thralls working hard both in the farms and in their household.

In return for her wealth and great service, he allowed her to bed him as much as she wanted, whenever she wanted and wherever, until she finally had to temper herself due to the child he had placed in her delicate womb.

At first, Sigurd greatly despised the way she behaved towards his younger brother, at how she treated him like a purposely-broken doll made entirely for her pleasure, a thing to care for so that she could use him frequently without damaging him further. And Sigurd silently raged at his brother for letting it happen, for giving her an illusion of ownership that his wife relished with great satisfaction.

But then he realized that Ivar had always submitted to every person in his life. He obeyed his father, his mother, his guardians Floki and Helga, Ubbe, Hvitserk, even Bjorn occasionally. He gave what King Olaf sought, provided him strategic assistance in his wars. He also yielded to what the raiders wanted, told them what they needed to hear, promised them things most men would yearn for. It was as though he was a piece of clay, pliant and ready to be moulded to fit everyone’s desire.

Well, everyone else but him, Sigurd realized. He had never been a part of Ivar’s orbit. Perhaps before, but not anymore. Maybe he had grown to be invisible to his brother’s eyes.

Or maybe, he served no purpose as far as his little brother was concerned. For Ivar demanded great payback each time he submitted to someone, not directly perhaps for it usually happened without the person even knowing. And Sigurd, even as he ached for his brother’s attention, refused to be handled like that, refused to be played around like a wooden piece on a tafl board. 

As he watched his brother lie beside his wife, Sigurd saw how Ivar studied her intently, gauging her contentment. And when she caressed him, his countenance remained loving and tender and helpless, just the way she wanted him to be.

When she started to kiss his brother, Sigurd angrily covered the hole in the wall and returned to his cold bed.

But then again, why would Sigurd care? It’s not like his brother was some imprisoned damsel waiting for a prince to save him. And Ivar’s wife was no giant serpent to be slain – she was only a woman, a beautiful one at that, enjoying her married life as she should. To add to that, Sigurd was no hero, just a brother tormented by an unnatural, unfilial…no, not love. He would rather freeze in Hel than admit his own yearning.

As he pretended to sleep, Sigurd started to think that maybe his own feelings were part of some game. That for all his pride, maybe Ivar was already playing with him and he had only just begun to realize it.

-

Upon Hvitserk’s success with their brother, Sigurd thought it was the end of the matter. But Ubbe insisted that Ivar try to bed Margrethe again. And so, they left her to the slave woman once more. This time, she received not only threats and the touch of a knife’s edge on her neck – she was left unable to speak for days due to their brother’s strong grip almost crushing her throat.

Sigurd could still remember Ivar’s voice that night, so soft and yet so cold, “Forgive me, brother. I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

Hvitserk was on the floor examining the girl, trying to ascertain the extent of her injury. Finally, he said, “She needs to see a healer.”

Ubbe nodded in agreement, a semblance of pity on his face for the poor slave. But what was greater was the disappointment at their brother’s second failure. And so, he sighed deeply and said, “Margrethe, follow Hvitserk’s advice and rest until you are well. Afterwards, you must try again with our brother until you succeed.”

Hearing her master’s words, Magrethe shook in terror and fearfully looked at Hvitserk and Sigurd as though pleading for help, her countenance almost like a cow about to be slaughtered.

There was also the slightest distress on Ivar’s face and he opened his lips as if to complain, but he refrained from doing so, preferring to show obedience to their eldest brother. However, Hvitserk seemed to understand what their youngest brother wanted to say, and so he admitted, “I can rouse him and make him release. Isn’t that enough?”

But Ubbe who knew everything that had transpired simply answered, “No, it’s not enough. He has to release for a woman, not a man.”

Hearing that, Sigurd’s member hardened. Entirely inappropriate to the situation, he knew, but the notion of his brother’s sex awakening only for a man stirred his loins. However, his arousal was killed when Ubbe said, “Little brother, your legs are already useless. And now your cock is also defective. How much more shame can you bring upon our father’s name?”

The words weren’t directed at him but it cut deeply into Sigurd’s heart. And yet, he couldn’t speak against his eldest brother and so he remained muted as usual.

A brief silence lasted between them, cut only when Hvitserk spoke, “Maybe he doesn’t like your woman, brother. He can try some of mine.”

Ubbe thought about it for a while and then nodded. “Yes, try that.” And then he sat on the bed, cupped his youngest brother’s face with his hands and looked into his eyes. “Ivar, you are a son of the greatest king in the world. A son of Ragnar Lothbrok. So be a man, do your part, and embarrass us no further, hm?”

Ivar remained quiet, his eyes blank.

And then Ubbe kissed his brother’s cheek, kept his face close to Ivar’s in such a way that their noses are touching, and said in a very quiet voice, “It is for your own good. You know what happens to men who cannot fulfill this obligation. There is no penalty but the humiliation is overwhelming. You can imagine our father’s disgrace if a word about this leaks out.”

To that, Ivar nodded somewhat uneasily, fully understanding the implications.

Seeing that, Ubbe smiled, kissed his brother once more and stood up. And he told Hvitserk, “Make sure that whatever happens, your women’s mouths are closed on the matter.” And then he turned to the injured girl still shaking on the floor, “Come Margrethe.” When the slave struggled to stand, he gently lifted her in his arms and left.

When their eldest brother was gone, Ivar allowed himself to fall down the bed, and then he sighed deeply, his eyes closed. Sigurd wanted to ease his burden, offer him words of comfort, an embrace or a kiss perhaps. He wanted to say that it was alright, that his brother’s apparent preference wasn’t a bad thing, tell him that he had just made Sigurd very happy tonight.

But as usual, Hvitserk beat him to it as his older brother lay on Ivar’s pillow, pinched their little brother’s nose, and said, “Don’t look so sad, stupid. I’m going to help you, remember?”

To that, Ivar opened his eyes and nodded, his lips forming into a relieved smile.

And then all of a sudden, he turned sideways ever so subtly and glanced directly into Sigurd’s face.

Upon beholding his brother’s eyes on him, Sigurd’s heart started to pump wildly, his blood heating up. But he didn’t know what to do. Should he step forward or backward? Should he come close and sweep his brother in his arms like he had always wanted? Or should he run away instead?

Before he could decide, Hvitserk told him, “Sigurd, close the curtains when you leave.”

The following week, Sigurd found himself traversing the forested road once more, his path headed towards the old hunting lodge. This time, he was neither hidden nor alone but with a small group clustered together like the members of a Christian king’s retinue. However, there was no foreign king, only King Ragnar’s sons and five of Hvitserk’s concubines.

When they reached the cabin, Magrethe and another one of Ubbe’s women had already prepared everything just as their master had commanded. The bed was ready, covered in fresh linen with pillows strewn above it. White curtains were hung on the open window obstructing any inkling of the activities inside from an outsider’s view. 

Despite the intimate atmosphere, Ivar didn’t look as relaxed as his eldest brother wanted. He may appear at ease, his face as tranquil as ever, but Sigurd knew better, understood the shame and the disgust emanating from his little brother. It was obvious to him, how Ivar refused to look at the women, his eyes glancing instead upon the shadows cast by the flickering candlelight. If he were any braver, Sigurd would have stopped everything from happening. But to his shame, he had neither the power nor the guts to disobey Ubbe. And so, he remained standing on his own dark corner, mute as a dumb ox.

Hvitserk didn’t seem to know what Sigurd had been thinking, but he was sensitive to his brother’s need for support. And so, when Ivar was placed on the bed, he sat with him and said, “Don’t be afraid, little brother. I’m with you.”

Seeing that he had no other choice, Ivar nodded. But when Ubbe started to undress him, he said, “Do I really have to be naked for this? My breeches are the only part that needs to be opened, are they not?”

Ubbe paused, thinking a bit, and replied, “When you marry, you would need to be naked for your wedding night and the other nights to come. You should start getting used to it.”

And he removed Ivar’s shirt and afterwards his undershirt. Their youngest brother didn’t protest even when Ubbe loosened his belt. But when their eldest brother tried to take off his trousers, Ivar said, “My legs would be loathsome to any woman, even to you brother.”

Ubbe only sighed and told him, “I have seen it a thousand times and I don’t find it repugnant. But if you insist on having it covered, that’s fine.”

Hearing that, Ivar’s eyes lightened up a bit and he asked, “Would it be alright if I slept with my bride with my pants on?”

Hvitserk chuckled at that while Ubbe replied, “Perhaps.”

When their brother was ready, Hvitserk beckoned one of his women to come. She obeyed and flaunted herself, her body as naked as the day she was born. But if she meant to seduce their little brother, she didn’t achieve her objective for Ivar immediately looked down, perhaps finding the beddings more attractive than her.

Seeing his brother’s reaction, Ubbe sat on the bed, his hands on his brother’s shoulder, and said unto him, “Brother, how could you release into a woman if you won’t even look at her?”

Ivar closed his eyes, seemingly bewildered, and then opened them once more. And he said in a small voice, “In all honesty, brother, I don’t find her appealing.”

Hvitserk tilted his head a little, a bit confused at his brother’s words. For the girl had a perfect face, her body slender yet blessed with buxom breasts, her skin smooth as silk. When he bid the others to undress and present themselves, Ivar only looked at them, seemingly forced, a pained expression on his face.

Ubbe palmed his face and sighed once more, perhaps deeper than any sigh he had ever made. As another silence fell within the room, Sigurd opened his lips to say that perhaps they should end this, that their brother was clearly distressed, that this attempt to force him to have sex with a woman is a grave disrespect to his freedom as his own person.

But before he could utter a word, Hvitserk said, “Look at her teats, brother.” When Ivar didn’t reply nor did his bidding, he said, “Think about mother’s teats. You sucked on those when you were little. You weren’t disgusted with her, were you?”

“Shut up, Hvitserk!” Sigurd blurted out. He couldn’t take this anymore. “Don’t bring mother’s teats into this.”

But their second brother seemed too stupid to understand his own indelicacy and said, “What? You don’t think mother’s teats were good?”

Sigurd stepped out of the shadows, his fists clenched in anger at his brother’s insensitivity. “Yes, they’re good. But for the love of Odin, she’s our mother. Would you have sex with our own mother?”

Hvitserk only laughed and said, “Of course, I won’t. All I’m saying is that her teats were good.”

Ubbe sighed at the lot of them. “This is getting ridiculous.”

Then Hvitserk had another idea. “Ivar, how about you think of father’s cock while you suck her teats?”

“Why does it have to be father’s?!” Sigurd yelled. His head felt like it was about to explode.

But Ivar’s mood had brightened up. And despite his still-apparent indifference towards the women surrounding him, he chuckled at his older brothers’ little fight. And then he asked, “Do I really have to suck her teats? Can’t I just lie down and make her do all the work?”

Sigurd’s rage flared at his brother’s ignorance and he turned to him, his face scrunched with anger, “You miserable, boneless, decrepit fool! Of course you have to suck her teats! You have to seem like you really want her. Otherwise, it won’t be believable.”

Hvitserk giggled at that, seemingly tickled. He didn’t stop his laughing even with Sigurd’s intense glare.

“No, no,” Ubbe interjected softly. “That’s a sound idea, actually,” he told Ivar. “You can always use your legs as an excuse. Yes, lie down, little brother.”

Ivar shrugged and then lay down, his head pillowed on Ubbe’s lap. And when Ubbe attempted to get up, Ivar held his hand and said, “You wanted me to do this, brother. The least you can do is to see me through.”

Ubbe only nodded and said, “Fine, I’ll see you through.”

Sigurd breathed out, still angry. He went towards the bed and sat down. He didn’t make an effort to put away the scowl off his face. For how could he not scowl at his brother’s incredible stupidity?

When the women were presented once more, Ivar now looked at them one after the other and selected the tallest one, the girl with blonde waves. Sigurd rolled his eyes at his brother’s choice, for the stupid idiot had chosen the one with the smallest teats. And then he realized that perhaps what he found lacking was what Ivar wanted – a woman not too womanly.

As she approached, Sigurd could see the apprehension on her face. For at that moment, King Ragnar’s sons were positioned in a formidable battle formation – Ivar on the front, Ubbe behind him, Hvitserk on the right, Sigurd on the left. Even in bed, they looked quite intimidating.

Sigurd’s jaw clenched, his anger still apparent, and told her, “Get on with it, woman.”

She climbed on the bed, meek but determined to do her job, spirited girl. When she came face to face with Ivar, she bent down to kiss him. But their little brother still couldn’t bring himself to be with a woman, and so he moved his face, her kiss landing on his cheek instead.

When Sigurd heard Ubbe’s exasperated sigh once more, his anger flared even more violently than before. And so, he pushed the girl aside and leaned so close to his brother that he could feel Ivar’s warm breath on his cheek.

Perhaps it was due to his anger, perhaps his own longing buried deeply within, but when Ivar gazed into his eyes with that infuriating, maddening innocence, Sigurd couldn’t hold himself back any longer. He pinned him down and kissed him roughly. And when his brother raised his hands to his chest, mayhap to tell Sigurd that he was too brusque, he caught his wrists and pinned them to the sides of his head, the right one landing on Ubbe’s thigh.

As he felt the warm, softness of his little brother’s lips, he couldn’t help but bite it out of frustration. When Ivar opened his mouth to complain at such harsh treatment, Sigurd wasted no opportunity to force his tongue therein.

And he was drowned by the sweetness, his head swimming on some enchanted sea somewhere. He didn’t want it to end, and yet he had to, for in his heated passion he had forgotten to breathe. They separated very briefly for Sigurd had delved his tongue inside once again, like a man already drunk but kept on drinking.

Still in discontent, his hands snaked under his brother’s head, the left gripping the back of Ivar’s neck, the right holding him steady, while his tongue forced his brother’s mouth to open some more. This time, Ivar didn’t fight him. He submitted to him, yielded to whatever Sigurd wanted.

Despite what he did, neither of their older brothers told him off for he did let his little brother go. And when Ivar was laid once more between Ubbe’s thighs, Sigurd found himself staring at him, his breeches already tightened uncomfortably. But to retain a sense of normalcy, he feigned anger, frowned menacingly and said, “You finished the sweets again, didn’t you? I told you to save some honey for me.”

Ivar only blinked softly and said, “It was mother who fed it to me. But I’m still sorry, brother.”

Hvitserk ignored them, his hand going straight between their youngest brother’s legs. When he pressed, Ivar gasped. And then he chuckled and said, “Well, our little brother is ready. Thank you, Sigurd.”

With that, Ubbe beckoned Hvitserk’s woman to do her job. She climbed over their little brother, her hand guiding his sex into her. Ivar bit his lip at that, his hand squeezing tightly on Ubbe’s arm, the other on his older brother’s thigh. When he was buried deeply within, she started to move, and Ivar blinked rapidly at that, perhaps surprised by the pleasure. And he said, “It’s so warm, brother.”

“That is how a woman’s sex is like,” Ubbe told him. “It feels good, doesn’t it?”

Ivar nodded, gasping a bit and then bit his lip to silence himself. To that, Hvitserk said, “Don’t hold your voice back. You don’t have to be ashamed, it’s only natural.”

As she started to move faster, Ivar didn’t hold back anymore. Or perhaps he couldn’t hold back, for he seemed to try to swallow his moans, only he didn’t succeed. And as his brother’s hands gripped him tight, Ubbe responded by running his fingers on Ivar’s hair as if to placate him.

She rode on faster and faster and then she stopped, perhaps feeling Ivar’s release erupting inside her. And Ivar closed his eyes, fully spent, his hold on Ubbe slackening as he slowly regained his breath. At that moment, Sigurd wanted to kiss him again, perhaps rub himself on his brother’s groin until he released. But that was not to be – this lesson was for Ivar and Ivar alone.

The woman stayed for a while and then, at Hvitserk’s cue, she rose and sat on the bed once more awaiting her master’s next command.

When Ivar’s breathing was already steady, Ubbe lifted him to sit up, his little brother’s back fully resting on his chest. Then he rested his chin on Ivar’s shoulder and said, “Now that she has pleasured you, it is customary that you reward her efforts with a kiss.”

Ivar’s eyes abruptly opened at that and he looked to Hvitserk as though asking for help.

And Hvitserk came close to him, kissed his lips, and told him, “You did it with me, little brother, you can do it with her. Whether you kiss a man or a woman, there’s no difference.” Then he gestured to his woman, and she came forward and pressed her lips to Hvitserk’s. And then she came towards Ivar and pressed her lips to his.

Mayhap feeling that his little brother no longer showed discomfort or disgust towards the girl, Ubbe kissed Ivar’s cheek and said, “See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Ivar chuckled at that, “Yes, that wasn’t so bad.” And then he pressed his face towards his eldest brother and said, “Can I kiss you too, brother?”

And Ubbe replied, “Do as you please.”

Hearing his brother’s consent, Ivar fully turned to press his lips on Ubbe’s. Then his fingers touched his older brother’s bottom lip as if to coax him to open up. And Ubbe obliged, allowing his younger brother to taste him. When Ivar had fully enjoyed him, Ubbe beckoned Hvitserk’s woman once more and told his little brother, “Now try with her.”

This time, Ivar took her face in his hands and kissed her, really kissed her as deeply as he had kissed his brother. And when he pulled back, he looked into her eyes and she smiled coyly, perhaps honored that her master’s choosy brother was pleased with her. And Ivar said, “I think I want to have sex again.”

Ubbe smiled, very happy with his brother’s words. And he said, “I guess I was wrong. Your cock isn’t defective, brother. You’re simply not used to women due to spending too much time with men.” And he got off the bed, kissed his little brother’s lips, and said, “Have sex with her as many times as you like.”

At Ubbe’s gesture, his concubines, Hvitserk, and Hvitserk’s other concubines left the bed. When Sigurd felt his eldest brother’s hand pulling him away as well, he had no choice but to follow. Then the women closed the curtains separating the bedroom from the rest of the house.

As the thick fabrics were fastened together before his very eyes, Sigurd stood there rooted to the spot, his prick still as hard as a rock. And then Ubbe flicked his eyes onto his third brother’s crotch and said, “Seems like you need sex as well.”

Sigurd’s face twisted into an angry frown and his older brothers laughed at him, making him angrier than ever. But Sigurd’s cock was just as angry, there was no denying it. And in his mind, he blamed Ivar, the useless imbecile who needed to be guided into something as simple and as mundane as sex.

But he also knew that no matter how much he lied to himself, his cock’s reaction was no mere lust or carnal desire. For he wanted his brother the way he had always wanted him when they were children.

He wanted Ivar to be close to him, to confide to him, tell him things that he won’t tell anyone else. He wanted to embrace him, kiss him, perhaps relieve him of his body’s needs the way Hvitserk did fully and Ubbe did partly. He had also done it just now, also partly, but Sigurd knew that it wasn’t enough. He wanted more.

And yet, he also knew that he cannot force his desire. Ivar was no one’s thrall, no one’s possession. His legs were useless but he was still a king’s son just like Sigurd. He would have to be persuaded to recognize and accept Sigurd’s feelings. And for all his arrogance and his pride, Sigurd did not know how to say what he felt. He had a mouth but he could not find the right words to say.

Realizing that, his old bitterness started to engulf Sigurd’s heart. But there was nothing he could do about it. And so, he left the cabin and ran away like he always did.

-

When the raiders’ returned, news of great wealth from the new land started to circulate. Along with it were whispers of Ivar’s generosity towards those who chose to follow him. True to his word, he allowed each man to keep their spoils for themselves. It seemed as though his only concern was a detailed description of the incursions and the lay of the land as well as another headcount of the men under his command. None of them died, thanks to the battle formation the prince had imposed on them and the scout regiment’s efficient work.

“We docked in a city called Dublin,” narrated one of the leaders. “It was walled and fortified. Our people already live there, most were Norwegians like your brother King Olaf but there were also many of our Dane kinsmen. Its ports were vast, could handle more than two hundred ships at once.”

“And who rules this great city?” Ivar asked.

“There were many and there were none,” answered the man. “Many lords and kings have staked their claim over it, and yet none have succeeded for there were many other wars to fight.”

Ivar paused for a while, seemingly in deep thought, and then he asked once more, “And what of my brother Olaf? Did he have a claim over the city as well?”

“No, prince,” the warrior replied. “His fight was over another city called Limerick. He bade us fight there. We raided some towns along the way, thus, accumulating these great treasures which we now present to you and your father, King Ragnar.”

At that, the king only shrugged and said, “Whatever my son has promised you, I intend to honor it.”

And Ivar said, “As I told you, I only need one token from each man.”

The Vikingrs looked at each other, quite pleased but slightly bewildered. This was too good to be true. There must be a catch.

And yet, Ivar remained silent, his face tranquil and decked with a slight smile. When the men had taken their share, there were eighty nine pieces of treasure left. And then he spoke once again,

“Now we know of another world where we can thrive. Next spring, we shall raid Ireland again. And if you follow my command, I promise you, each of you will be richer than kings.”

Hearing that, the men burst into a seeming battle cry. King Ragnar laughed, very pleased. His youngest son wasn’t so useless after all, and it wasn’t only his strategic wisdom that could benefit the kingdom. He also had enough cunning to pull men into doing his bidding, much like how a skilled boatman handles a knarr over rough seas.

Ubbe was also smiling, his countenance very proud. And when he raised his golden goblet to his father, the king came towards him and together, they spoke softly of things that nobody else heard.

Ivar only blinked gently, his eyes observing the proceedings with an unreadable calm. And as he watched the men dine and drink their fill within the great hall, he absently fingered his knife, perhaps thinking thoughts that nobody else could.

On his own lonely place, Sigurd shuddered as he felt a chill running down his spine. Ivar had begun to move the pieces and he was not pleased. For this meant that his little brother would now start to make his way into the world and Sigurd would further be blurred into the background. And yet, he knew that just like before, there was nothing he could do.

All of a sudden, Ivar raised his eyes and caught Sigurd’s. And without ever meaning to, Sigurd started to drown, started to dream again of the many things he had always wanted to say. And his heart ached, the pain strangling him softly.

When he couldn’t bear it anymore, he looked away, stupid cowardly man that he was.

_-_

_tbc_


	3. Chapter 3

A few moons before autumn’s end, Hvitserk returned along with his company. It was sunset when he docked, the sails of his twelve ships tinged bright gold.

As Hvitserk lovingly embraced and kissed each of his brothers, Sigurd noticed the ten women following him, some were bewildered and looking upon the surroundings in great fear. Ubbe took no notice of them and instead asked, “Where’s Bjorn?”

“We parted after two raids,” Hvitserk replied. “He wanted to sail south and I wanted to go further east.”

“And did you reach Rome?” Ivar asked.

To that, Hvitserk laughed and the men in his company laughed along. “We didn’t even see its shadow, brother. We were lost, so horribly lost. But we sacked many cities elsewhere. Look what we brought home!”

And as he gestured towards the boatloads of treasure and the many slaves chained together, the warriors roared in great mirth, causing the captives to shiver even further. And Hvitserk said aloud,

“There will be feasting at the great hall tomorrow night. We shall divide our plunder and tell our tales. And all shall know of how we almost drowned in those terrible seas. Thank the Gods we’re still alive!”

The men burst into fits of laughter once more, roughly slapped Hvitserk’s back and shoulders, and then they dispersed amid talks of how ‘the good commander’ kept everyone’s spirits high despite the dreadful circumstances.

But Hvitserk seemed not to care too much and clung to his brothers instead, and then he beckoned to the women who trailed after him. When they came, Sigurd saw that two of them were wearing jewels and did not look frightened like the other eight. “Dear brothers, these are my wives, Ingegerd and Ragnhild.”

The two smiled and greeted their husband’s brothers, told them that they were Swedes, daughters of a warrior serving as an elite guard for the ruler of Mikelgard (Constantinople). Ubbe only nodded, pleased, and said, “Welcome home, sisters. Our brother promised to bring home a wife and he brought two.”

Hvitserk chuckled and said, “Not just wives, brother. Here,” and he bid the eight to come forward.

Looking at the women, Sigurd found them very beautiful indeed. They could also speak the common tongue, albeit haltingly and laced with a foreign lilt.

“They are Slavs,” Hvitserk told them, “from Holmgard (Novgorod).”

Ubbe’s lips stretched into a slight smile and raised an eyebrow.

Totally understanding his eldest brother, Hvitserk shrugged as if it was the most obvious thing in the world and said, “Go ahead. Why should I keep them for myself? Enjoy them, Ubbe. You too, Sigurd. And you too, Ivar.”

Their youngest only shook his head. “If you knew of my wife’s temperament, brother, you wouldn’t even make the offer.”

Speaking of which, Ivar’s wife came, her belly already big and round like a full moon, so big that she had to be carried in a stretcher just like her husband. Hvitserk didn’t hide his astonishment and asked, “Sister, you look as if you are carrying a giant.”

The princess only said, “The midwives told me that I carry two sons but the seer foretold that there are three. I do not know which prediction is right, but I look forward to it.”

Hvitserk grinned to that and threw an arm around each of his wives, kissed them one after the other, and said, “Well, my darlings, it seems like we have to work hard to surpass that.”

The women laughed, their mirth causing one to have tears in her eyes, so tickled was she with what her husband’s words implied. Sigurd was not impressed and asked, “Forgive me, sisters, but are you not jealous of each other at all?”

And Hvitserk’s wives looked at each other and giggled together, perhaps finding the question quite stupid, and the younger answered, “We’re sisters. There can be no jealousy between us.”

“Besides, I don’t want to be alone once our husband leaves home to raid,” said the elder. “What better company to have than my own flesh and blood?”

“Well said, my loves,” Hvitserk affirmed. “Now, I believe we are all tired after such a long journey. Beloved brothers, dearest sister, please guide us home.”

Ubbe indulged him with a mock bow, his arms already curled around the waists of two of his younger brother’s new concubines.

The following day, there was much feasting and jolly talk. Hvitserk’s warriors bragged of how they braved through the strange eastern seas and its magical fires. Some of Ivar’s men were also present and loudly boasted of their treasures from the emerald lands.

As the night deepened, when the drunken men had left and dispersed, Sigurd sat with his brothers by the hearth. It gravely disconcerted him that they had already started to handle their own warriors just like their half-brother Bjorn.

Among his brothers, Sigurd was the only one who had not yet established personal ties with the people under his command. It was telling how the rest had started to lead men on their own right, a sign that they would soon be separated from each other.

And he was loth to admit it but his heart was torn when Ivar told them, “I’m going to Ireland this coming spring.”

Ubbe tilted his head a little, listening intently, while Hvitserk bit at his beef bones, tried to suck whatever was left of the marrow.

“My men said that the climate was better over there,” Ivar continued. “My wife told me the same thing. If the land is truly good, I’d like to settle there.”

Hvitserk nodded quite enthusiastically, drank some mead, and said, “Good idea. I’m going with you. This place is getting crowded. Besides, what are we but the lesser of our father’s sons? The third son and the fifth son – I don’t think anyone will miss us.”

“Your women will miss you,” Ivar told him with a teasing smile.

Hvitserk laughed loudly at that and said, “They will miss my cock more than they will miss me.”

Ubbe laughingly raised his drinking horn to that and Ivar and Hvitserk clicked theirs with his, so did Sigurd. And then they drank their mead once more.

“Of course, I’d bring them all with me when the time is right,” Hvitserk said and gulped his mead some more. And then he asked, “Where is that land exactly?”

“South of Pictland but not too far,” Ivar replied. “The travel might be perilous but once you reach the shores, the danger will be worth it.” And he asked Hvitserk, “Are you not going back East?”

“Oh no, even if you pay me, I won’t,” Hvitserk replied. “Mikelgard was tougher than any other city I’ve ever been to. If not for my father-in-law vouching for us, we would have been roasted alive and fed to the sea denizens.”

Ubbe smilingly said to him, “So you were the prince in distress and your wives’ father was the hero who rescued you?”

“Indeed, brother,” Hvitserk admitted. “And he was so good to me. Those concubines were his daughters’ dowry – he bought them for a steep price.” He thought about it a little, still mystified at his lucky fate. “Maybe he was simply too happy to see Vikingrs. He was far away from home after all, mayhap very lonesome. He didn’t even care that we were Danes. He was just so delighted to see us and hear us speak.”

Hearing that, their eldest brother nodded, somehow relieved, and said, “I’m so glad that my little brothers have all become strong, lucky, and wise, truly blessed by the Gods.”

Then Ubbe turned to Sigurd, patted his shoulder, and said, “Brother, even though you are not yet wedded, I’m sure you will find the woman,” and he glanced at Hvitserk in a seeming jest, “or _women_ fated for you.” And his eyes turned to Sigurd once more. “I know also that if you only put your heart into it, you will also become a successful leader of men.”

Sigurd’s heart started to beat faster, fearing his brother’s next words.

“I see now that you are all fully-grown, independent men,” Ubbe continued, now addressing the three of them. “No longer do I need to constantly worry about you. And so, from this day forward, I shall proceed with my own plans.”

Hvitserk laughed nervously and asked, “What do you mean, brother?”

“I’ll be off to Frisia next year to wed my betrothed, King Rurik’s only daughter,” Ubbe told them. “The next winter, we will spend our long honeymoon in Dorestad.”

Ivar parted his lips, seemingly trying to find the words to say, and then said, “You are going to stay there for good, aren’t you, brother?”

Ubbe smiled to that and said, “Indeed I am. There is opportunity there. With the king’s support, I can make a name for myself and own vast lands. For that, I doubt that I will ever be coming back. It is as you said Hvitserk, we are the lesser of our father’s sons. As the second son, I can only oversee a portion of our father’s domains but never truly inherit them, for they all belong to Bjorn, the firstborn.”

Sigurd shuddered at the unfairness of it all, the tears welling in his eyes. But he dared not risk his brothers knowing his true feelings, and so, he swallowed hard, forcing his heart to harden.

And then their eldest brother gazed upon the three of them once more, his eyes both sweet and sad. “I will miss you terribly, but such is our fate. Now that everything is set, we have to schedule our goings. If the two of you are sailing in the spring, I’ll expect you to come back in the fall. Upon your return, that would be the time of my own departure.”

“What if we come back early? Perhaps in the summer?” Ivar asked. “Will you still depart in autumn? Say that you will, brother.”

Ubbe smiled lightly at that and nodded, “If that is your wish, I will.”

Hearing that, Ivar came down from his chair and crawled fast towards their eldest brother. And when he reached him, he embraced him very tightly on the waist like never before, his face pressed on Ubbe’s chest.

Seeing that, Hvitserk chuckled, and yet he went to his elder brother and embraced him as well. It was too embarrassing for Sigurd, but seeing his brothers already clustered, he couldn’t help but hug his big brother too.

In response to his little brothers’ show of affection, Ubbe embraced them all back as tightly as he could until they all fell to floor laughing. And yet, their mirth was tinged with sadness and resignation.

Through the night and into the morning light, they stayed by the dying fire. They drank together and made merry, and when exhausted they lay down together. They held hands the way they did when they were little and shared their blankets.

As his brothers fell asleep, comforted by each other’s loving warmth, Sigurd stayed awake, his heart beating painfully in the quiet darkness.

Ubbe had assured them that his destined land was very near and that they could visit him there at any time. But Sigurd couldn’t help but secretly grieve. For he knew that they were already torn asunder. Neither his prayers nor his wishful thinking could ever stop their forthcoming separation.

-

When the next year’s autumn leaves fell, Ubbe sailed to Frisia with his twenty four longships and thirty knarrs, his supporters carrying his banners with pride. Despite the sadness of their parting, he left with a smile on his face, gave each of his brothers a warm embrace and a kiss. And when he boarded his ship, he turned away and never looked back, fully disappearing into the waves.

With his departure, Sigurd felt as though the entire world had changed, had grown colder and more uncertain. More than their father and mother, his eldest brother was their strongest foundation, the one who kept his brothers together, the one who truly loved them and cared for each of them.

No matter was too private or too personal for him – he would do what he can so long as it benefitted his younger brothers. To them, he gave most of his time and attention, almost neglecting himself in the process.

Indeed, Sigurd surmised, this was the first instance that Ubbe made plans for his own benefit. And to them whom their eldest brother had sacrificed most of his early years, losing him was as painful as cutting one’s heart out.

As Sigurd beheld the two brothers he had left, he also saw their wives and the children they had begotten. Ubbe named them all – Ivar’s three sons and Hvitserk’s two daughters, five people whose names carry his memory.

And yet, even with their presence, Sigurd felt utterly alone. For as the seasons passed without Ubbe’s company, Ivar started to drift away from him, though not of his own doing.

Unlike Ubbe who bridged everyone together, Hvitserk was a wall both gateless and impenetrable. He was beautiful and warm and cheerful, brighter than sunshine after the rain. But his love for their youngest brother was a jealous love, a lot less jealous than that of Ivar’s own wife but jealous nevertheless.

Sigurd had begun to notice it immediately after Ubbe left, at how Hvitserk always cornered Ivar away from him, always sat between them, and sometimes hauled their little brother away whenever Sigurd was around. But never had it been more pronounced than during that winter morning when they were discussing preparations for the next raid.

The last three expeditions mainly concentrated on simple raids and King Olaf’s personal battles, a way to familiarize the warriors with the Irish territories. But this time, the project was to take over an already-established city, one with longports and a thriving trading center. Dublin was the best candidate for this and Ivar had already formulated a plan, the details of which Sigurd had only vague hints.

As Hvitserk discussed the logistics with his little brother, King Ragnar listened intently, mayhap thinking that he could profit from his sons’ enterprise. At that time, Frankia’s Danegeld had started to diminish and the competition between Vikingr warbands had grown stiffer. Thus, the king now desired to venture elsewhere.

Everything went well until their father suggested that Sigurd accompany Ivar as his agent. Upon hearing that, their elder brother violently opposed the idea in such a way that the king was very much affronted.

And when Ivar attempted to placate him, Hvitserk threw the pieces on the table and said, “After all that I have done for you, you’re going to reject me and favor the yellow-haired pipsqueak? Fine, I’ll leave. Be with him. See if I care.” And he stormed out of the room leaving Ivar quite confused.

When the king looked at his youngest son quizzically, Ivar promptly said, “Forgive my brother. He is probably thinking that you might want a share of the profits through Sigurd.”

And when the king’s brows furrowed to that, Ivar told him, “Hvitserk wants half of our net earnings. You see, he has to work very hard to support two wives and fifteen concubines. Please have more patience with him, father.”

To that, King Ragnar chuckled and shook his head, his anger cooled. “It’s all his fault for letting his cock loose in the first place.” And their father leaned across the table and then whispered but loud enough for Sigurd to hear, “I have no care for profits at all, not even a little. All I want is intelligence about the English waterways. Do you think you can provide me that?”

Ivar nodded in acquiescence.

Seeing that, Ragnar patted his youngest son’s head and kissed his temple, and then he left, his objective attained.

But Ivar’s eyes were glazed with bewilderment and Sigurd knew the reason. Hvitserk’s troops were crucial to this incursion, and if he abandoned this undertaking, Ivar would have to reorganize the plans, waste his precious time and resources, and possibly lose King Olaf’s support.

Later in the night, Sigurd found Ivar on horseback, his trajectory headed towards the forest. The weather was bitterly cold and yet he went out all by himself, perhaps even without his wife’s knowledge. But Sigurd who had been stalking his brother all his life noticed him discreetly commanding his guards to saddle his horse, hoist him up, and tie him upon the contraption that Floki had made, the same item that supposedly allowed him to oversee battles even in his condition.

But there were no battles to fight here, thus, his actions were very odd indeed. And so Sigurd followed him to the best of his ability. His feet were no faster than a horse’s, but he knew that if his younger brother met with an accident, there was no way he could get back up – he might just freeze to death on the spot without anyone ever knowing.

Not that Sigurd was worried about him, but if the boneless imbecile died…well, he better not die.

When he reached the deeper woods, Ivar halted, looked around, and called, “Hvitserk?”

And when no one answered, he said, “I know you’re here, brother.”

When there was no answer still, he said, “It’s alright if you don’t come out, Hvitserk. I’ll just wait for you right here until I freeze and die.”

Apart from the chilly winds blowing, there was a deafening silence. And so Sigurd, almost out of breath from all the running he had done, took a step towards his little brother. But their older brother was there indeed, stepping out behind a large oak entirely covered in frost.

“Why did you come?” Hvitserk asked, his face uncharacteristically as cold as winter ice. But his question didn’t seem to need an answer, for before their younger brother could say anything, he had taken the reins from Ivar’s hands. And when Ivar opened his lips to speak, Hvitserk told him, “Shut your mouth. I’m still angry with you.”

Ivar remained quiet even as his older brother pulled the horse towards a small cabin within the forest. He didn’t complain when Hvitserk loosened the straps on his waist, legs and feet, lifted him off the horse, and carried him inside.

When his older brother came out to bring the horse into the stable, Sigurd wasted no time to slip in and hide.

Despite being sheltered from the freezing cold outside, the chill remained, and so, Ivar tried to light the kindling. However, Hvitserk slapped his hand and lit it himself. Even though he looked a bit annoyed by his brother’s behavior, Ivar only sighed and let him be.

After a while, the fire grew, making Sigurd feel cozy despite his uncomfortable position in the shadows. And on his corner, he saw Ivar quietly contemplating, perhaps trying to formulate the words in his head to calm his older brother. On his part, Hvitserk didn’t show any signs of hot rage, only the disposition of a wolf-in-waiting ready to pounce.

Ever so softly, Ivar started, “Are you still angry with me, brother?” Hvitserk did not respond, so he continued, “You know, you were so disrespectful to father earlier. You were lucky he wasn’t on a bad mood.”

When his older brother remained quiet, Ivar sighed and said, “What happened between you and Sigurd anyway? Were you fighting? Is that why you didn’t want him to come with us?”

Hvitserk turned to his younger brother as though he wanted to say something, but in the end he faced the fire once more and fed it another log.

If it were Sigurd, his patience would have already snapped. But it seemed like Ivar had a vast reserve of forbearance, and he gently asked once more, “Is this about the profits?”

“It’s not about the fucking profits!”

And Hvitserk threw the logs on the floor, jumped at his younger brother, and pinned him down on the furs. Ivar was obviously startled but he kept his wits together. After all, there was no recourse but play dead when one is trapped by an angry bear. Upon witnessing such aggression, Sigurd was ready to leap at Ivar’s rescue.

But Hvitserk was no wild bear, and when he saw that his brother had closed his eyes as if bracing to withstand an incoming attack, his expression softened and he whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Ivar only opened his eyes and said, “I don’t know what you are sorry for, brother. Tell me what’s wrong.”

To that, Hvitserk answered not with words but with his lips pressed with his little brother’s.

It seemed forced at first, but in just a few moments, Ivar yielded, opened himself completely to receive Hvitserk’s kisses. When his older brother unfastened his cloak, loosened his belt and slipped his hands under his clothes, he made no move to stop him. And when Hvitserk’s mouth left his lips and started to move over his body, Ivar allowed his arms to fall to the sides, wordlessly permitting his brother to do as he pleased. 

Sigurd froze at what he saw. It was as though he was trapped in a dream, nay, a nightmare wherein he wanted to move but couldn’t. And yet, it was a very sweet nightmare for he wanted this so badly, only he wanted to take Hvitserk’s place.

The night was cold but the two of them were very comfortable indeed, warmed by the nearby fire, skin pressed against skin wherever their clothes were unlaced. Sigurd could not see everything due to Hvitserk’s furry cloak partially obscuring his view, but from the expressions fleeting on Ivar’s face and the way they rubbed against each other, he understood what was happening underneath. Sigurd himself was already very hard and leaking between his legs, and yet he dared not touch himself, for he could not risk being found out.

When Ivar bit his lip as though in pain, or perhaps due to pleasure, Sigurd feared that Hvitserk had dishonored their brother. But afterwards, when Ivar’s breathing had calmed, he said, “You haven’t released, brother. Do you want me to touch you?”

Hvitserk responded with a kiss so deep, and when their lips parted, he breathed, “Touch me.”

Hearing that, Ivar placed his hand inside the cloak. Their older brother started to move once more, pressing himself to his younger brother even further, their mouths locked so intimately that they seemed to have truly united into one body. And even when Hvitserk trembled, perhaps already releasing therein, he never freed Ivar’s lips even for a moment. And their younger brother simply let him be, surrendered to him completely until Hvitserk was satisfied.

After a long while, Hvitserk’s mouth finally left his lips and pressed kisses on his neck. Ivar merely tilted his head, allowing his brother more access. When his brother had finally calmed, his touches more sweet and tender, Ivar said, “If this is only what you wanted, you should have just told me. There is no need to lash out in front of father.”

Hvitserk snorted to that but kept on kissing his brother, his lips now pressed on Ivar’s chest.

When his brother started to suckle on his nipple, mayhap bit him there, Ivar gasped softly but maintained his calm, still thinking. And he said, “What is it about Sigurd anyway? He doesn’t have anything to do with us. With this, I mean.”

To that, Hvitserk raised his head and said, “Doesn’t he?”

Seeing his brother’s countenance, Ivar chuckled, “So you were jealous of him? Seriously?”

And Hvitserk claimed his brother’s lips once more, and then released him and said, “Yes, I _am_ jealous. Is that a crime?”

Ivar laughed to that, even as his brother bit at his nose lightly. “No, it’s not. But there’s nothing to be jealous about. Sigurd hates me. You know that.”

Hvitserk then nuzzled at Ivar’s neck and whispered, “Haven’t you seen the way he looks at you?”

“When he looks like he is about to chop my head off? Yes, I’ve seen it,” Ivar said softly, closing his eyes in pleasure upon feeling his brother’s hand moving under the cloak, perhaps playing with his sex. “Sometimes, I’d see him clenching his fists as if he were about to strike me. And whenever he speaks to me, it is always scolding and reprimands and reminders of how stupid I am. It’s really aggravating at times. Still, we must lengthen our patience and suffer him. After all, as Ubbe used to say, he is still our brother.”

Sigurd shuddered to that, his heart wrenched. He had denied his true feelings too much, too far. Now, he had grown to be a cruel man in his brother’s eyes.

“Well, if that is how you see it,” Hvitserk said pressing wet kisses on his brother’s throat, “then I’m not jealous anymore.”

Ivar smiled lightly to that, touched his brother’s hair and asked, “Are you really withdrawing from the expedition?”

Hvitserk chuckled at that and embraced his brother tight. Then he raised his head to his little brother’s level, kissed his cheek and answered, “Of course not. I want to see Dublin again. It’s a good place for us, a warmer place.”

When Hvitserk’s lips pressed into his, Ivar simply accepted him and didn’t say anything more. And when Hvitserk’s tongue entered his mouth again, Ivar received him without protest, allowing his brother to enjoy him as much as he wanted.

At that point, Sigurd’s chest was so painful that he couldn’t take it anymore. And so, he left the wretched cabin and flung himself into the bitter cold.

The day after, Sigurd was summoned by King Ragnar once more. His father insisted that he should go with his brothers and quietly promised him rewards upon his return. And although he was ultimately free to make his own decisions, Ivar’s words that night had made Sigurd more resigned to his suffering.

And so, when springtime finally came, he sailed with them. It was embarrassing given his age but that was his first raid, and he joined them not as a warrior but as his father’s spy.

At that time, Hvitserk’s behavior had also changed drastically, had reverted back to its previous cheer. Seeing his older brother’s disposition, Sigurd felt the irritation crawling under his skin, for he well knew what made his brother so happy. And in his mind, he blamed Ivar again, the shameless cretin who would do anything to gain their older brother’s army.

Of course, Sigurd knew that his brothers have always loved each other, knew that the more pleasurable aspect of their relationship wasn’t anything new. But it made him feel a little less miserable if he pretended to think of it differently, if he pretended that Hvitserk only wanted Ivar’s body and Ivar only wanted Hvitserk’s troops, that there were no real feelings involved on the matter.

In all honesty however, it still made him very envious to think of Hvitserk as a willing pawn played by Ivar’s hand. For that meant that Sigurd himself could actually gain access to his little brother if only he would set aside his pride.

But he also knew that he had already gone too far with his angry façade. And so, as they braved the south-western currents, he tore his eyes away from the boneless idiot and wearily sighed.

They approached Dublin’s longports under the cover of darkness. From a distance, he beheld the wooden walls and watchtowers looming ominously, illuminated by torches and guarded by warriors. Sigurd kept calm nevertheless and observed the surroundings, his eyes agile as a hawk’s.

They were still far from the harbor when Ivar commanded the oarsmen to halt and drop their anchors. As they waited, Sigurd noticed a figure swimming speedily towards them. Sigurd immediately grabbed an arrow to shoot, but Ivar stayed his hand and allowed the intruder to move towards them. Despite the darkness, Sigurd noticed the man’s half-red half-white sleeves. He then realized that this was one of Ivar’s special scouts.

After a while, the man was thrown a rope to grab on to, and then helped up by some Vikingrs as he climbed the longship. When he was finally settled aboard, Sigurd noticed that the warrior was still slightly out of breath, his wet clothing rendering him very cold, his muscles lightly shaking both from the chill and the exhaustion due to swimming such a long distance. But despite his condition, he still reported,

“The Norwegians have taken over the city, driven away most of our kinsmen, and imprisoned our Norse-Gael allies. Our regiment however was safe and intact, thanks to your brother Olaf. He hid us among his warriors but sent me ahead to report to you.”

And Ivar asked, “And have you found out how many warriors they have?”

“Yes, prince,” the man answered. “Not including King Olaf’s men, they have warriors one thousand strong. Most of them are still celebrating inside the walls, but there are at least a hundred dispersed in the longports and towers. Your brother has twenty of his warriors among the watchmen, his remaining two hundred already positioned as planned. They are now ready and awaiting your signal.”

To that, Ivar smiled, patted the man’s shoulder and said, “You have done well, Vigrid.” And he gestured to a waiting crew member to attend to the scout and provide him with dry clothing, chainmail, a cloak, and a fresh set of weapons.

And then Ivar took one of the ravens from the nearby cage, tied a rag on its foot and lit it up. Then he released it into the night sky. He repeated it twice more and then stopped. After a short while, the front wall started to burn, then the west tower, and then the east, and then another three towers far to the back.

Sigurd frowned at that, his mind racing. It was impossible that such structures would be lit by those burning birds. But never mind the mystery, for what was important was that the goal was achieved.

Upon beholding the sudden flame, the watchmen abandoned their posts and ran towards the city. Sigurd turned to Ivar, curious of his next command. But his brother only waited and so, he did the same.

After a short while, the horns within the city sounded. The first was loud, the second less loud, the third quieter, the fourth quieter still, seemingly retreating. At that, Ivar signalled to his men and they lit their torches and raised a yellow banner. Guided by the sign, all the longships including those allied to Hvitserk pulled up their anchors, sailed closer to the port, positioned them so as to maximize its bodies’ lengths, and spread out into a long line enveloping the shoreline.

At that point, the Norwegian watchmen still left on the harbor had taken notice of them and started shouting to their companions. A few of them returned to the port but the others had fully retreated, lured by the drive to rescue the burning city. Upon seeing that everything was in place, Ivar signalled his men to sound the horns.

The Norwegians on the port were confused – at their back was the burning city and the sound of retreat, and yet at the front was an array of enemy longships seeming to come from nowhere. As their enemy hesitated, Ivar nodded to their older brother. To that, Hvitserk grinned and winked at his little brother. And then he wore his helmet, stood near the prow, and in a loud voice bellowed, “Archers, ready!”

The command was repeated from one boat to the next. The warriors then grabbed their bows, took their arrows and awaited the next command.

“Loose!”

At that, some of the remaining watchmen were felled down including those who attempted to man their ships. Those who survived had formed into a shield wall.

As though in answer to the challenge, Ivar had his men raise a red banner beside the yellow one. The longships responded by lighting up their torches, and the warriors picked up only the arrows that had been dipped in pitch. Then came the torchmen who set all arrowheads alight.

“Loose!”

As the flaming arrows flew, the shield wall braced itself bravely to meet it, and then was soundly burned, bitten by that first wave of fire and then fully eaten by the next waves that followed.

Sigurd greatly wondered what the true reason was for this positioning. For the fire did not destroy any of the enemies’ ships or even the port itself. Instead, it formed a seeming barricade of dead men and scorched shields that gave the retreating foes an illusion of a burnt harbor.

When he carefully looked to the city, Sigurd saw how it didn’t really burn that much. And yet the fire upon some of the towers and the front wall remained, mayhap charring it to oblivion. There and then, he understood that this was no simple attack. This was a ploy to take over Dublin without inflicting too much damage, an effort to preserve the useful infrastructure for its new owners, one of whom was an ally within the enemy’s ranks.

Realizing that, Sigurd couldn’t help but smile. As a brother, he was quite proud of the boneless idiot.

And yet, despite the obvious victory, Ivar didn’t seem very pleased and ordered his warriors to be watchful. When the ships repositioned and disembarked on the slightly bloodied port, he had himself mounted on his horse and then re-formed his men. And as they moved into the city, killing some of the enemies that were still breathing on the ground, Sigurd noticed that his little brother had left a portion of his troops to guard the boats and every few paces along the way, perhaps to prepare their escape in case they were double-crossed.

The Norwegians had already retreated, save for Olaf and his men who had stayed behind amidst the chaos. They had thrown the flaming gate open to welcome their newly-arrived allies.

Upon beholding his brother-in-law, the White King held out his arms in mirth, so happy was he that his dream was finally realized. Ivar removed his helmet and also smiled. However, there was still a tiniest glaze of doubt in his eyes. Olaf didn’t seem to notice that and talked of how he needed to return to his kinsfolk later for the negotiations.

Ever so gently, Ivar suggested that the king simply send his word to his earls and the other kings, no need for him to go there personally. Olaf seemed to hesitate for a moment and then he agreed.

Sigurd surmised that the king had no choice but to agree, unless he wanted Hvitserk’s massively numbered warriors to butcher him and his entire army.

As if to reassure the White King, Ivar stated that he would send word to the Danes as well so that they may all convene together and be united in their cause. Olaf immediately affirmed it amid talks of prosperity for them all.

-

Atop the blessed hill overlooking his lands, the High King of Tara patiently waited for the ragged messenger to regain his breath. Finally, the man spoke, his words striking great fear upon those who heard it,

“A new army of Dubgaill (Danes) has come to our shores. So fearsome were they that the Finngaill (Norwegians) were driven away.”

Most of the people present made the sign of the cross and one had uttered, “By God! When will these devils cease to ravage our lands?”

But Mael Sechnaill son of Maele Ruanaid was not one to give in to despair. And so he asked, “How many were they and who leads them?”

The messenger paused a little and then answered, “By my reckoning, five thousand strong. They were led by their king called Imar and his brother Albann, miserable spawns of Satan that they were. They burned Dublin to the ground and ruthlessly massacred the Finngaill who opposed them.”

Hearing that, Mael Sechnaill’s eyes sparkled a bit, glimpsing a sliver of hope. And so he asked, “And what of Amlaib Conung? Was he killed as well?”

To that, the messenger hesitated for a long while. Seeing the fading patience on the High King’s face, he said, “T-The wretched Finngaill king Amlaib had most dishonorably betrayed his own vow of vengeance and made peace with his enemy. Now, the Finngaill and the Dubgaill have become allies and Amlaib and Imar joint kings.”

At that, the High King’s shoulders drooped, his heavy burden now gaining on him. He had spent most of his years fighting against these foreigners. Upon his defeat of Turgesius (Thorgest), the sea king who had desecrated Saint Patrick’s altar, he believed that the endless pillaging would finally stop.

For a while, he had expelled many of the remnants of Turgesius’ armies. But now, it seemed like the foreigners would once again plunge Ireland into misery.

Mael Sechnaill straightened his back once more. Despite his age weakening his body, his spirit would not bend. By God’s grace, he _will_ save Ireland from this horror even if it costs him his own life.

_-_

_tbc_


	4. Chapter 4

Upon their successful takeover of Dublin, Olaf and Ivar settled therein but did not divide the land. Instead, they built a united kingdom with the aspiration of bringing all their kinsmen together. They made no distinction between Norwegians and Danes, even Swedes were welcomed, and more so, they received the Norse-Gaels who had stood on the sidelines since the demise of good, old Thorgest.

Sigurd travelled back and forth for his father’s missions – from Ireland to England to Frisia to Frankia to the northern homelands and then back again. As he beheld the many lands and their unique peoples, he greatly appreciated how vast the world truly was. For before, he had only known his beloved Denmark, a small world where his heart belonged.

But home was no longer the same as it once was. The hearth was as warm as ever, but the people who used to sit by its fire were no longer there.

Gone were those springtime days spent by the river, no more could he hear his brothers’ laughter as they splashed about. No longer were the summers as warm as before, no longer were the flowers so sweet and so beautiful. Even autumn had grown colder and the winters colder still.

At times, Sigurd would lie awake and pretend that they were there. But the emptiness of their home persisted.

Eventually, he realized that those happy days were never coming back. His brothers had moved on with their lives a long time ago, and he who clung to the sweet memories of old could only dream of those days gone by.

And so, understanding the loneliness of his lot, Sigurd finally chose to follow the destiny his father and brothers sailed upon.

When he announced to his father that he wished to raid England, King Ragnar was very much delighted and sent him with ten ships. During those days, the king was frequently ill. And despite his great desire to hear the sounds of battle, his weakened body forced the old king to stay abed.

So it was fated, and in his father’s name, Sigurd pillaged the wealthy temples of Northumbria. After plundering the land and shackling the many captives they caught, he and his company docked in Dublin, the safest, richest kingdom in their world.

There, his brothers convened. Ubbe passed by with his Frisian fleet, Hvitserk with his massive coalition of Danish and Norwegian troops. Even Bjorn was there, exchanging his Swedish-made goods for the Irish slaves highly sought by Mediterranean traders.

Happy as he was of their brief reunion, to Sigurd, the most important part was to enter Dublin’s great hall and pay homage to its kings, particularly the one he dreamt of every night on his bed. And always, he was rewarded by a slight smile, that gentle voice welcoming him, so warm and so sweet.

And despite his yearning constantly aflame, Sigurd knew that there was no way to truly quench his thirst. Ivar was a king, dignified and respected, feared and glorified. He was no longer as accessible as he once was when he was a prince and Sigurd’s equal. Thus, there was nothing that could be done but to behold his little brother from a distance.

To Sigurd’s chagrin, Hvitserk’s take on the matter was quite different. His easy-going behavior remained and his shows of affection for his youngest brother never changed.

Ivar’s war with the Irish High King Mael Sechnaill had been going on for quite a while, and his brutal tactics to demoralize his Gaelic foe earned him a notorious reputation. It was a usual sight in Dublin to see captive Irish soldiers skinned alive and then placed on the border to die a slow, miserable death. Some were hung on posts or nailed and set afire.

And yet in spite of all that, to Hvitserk, his little brother was never the monster that his enemies cursed or the divine hero that his people hailed as a God. To him, Ivar was the same sweet person he cherished, dearly loved, and sought to protect.

In front of the assemblages, in execution sites, and in the privacy of Ivar’s bed, Hvitserk kissed those lips that pronounced death sentences. He gently held those same hands that skinned, beheaded, and chopped countless people to pieces. He lovingly embraced and caressed that same ruler who subjugated tens, mayhap hundreds, of thousands into unspeakable indignities.

To the Christian Irish and to the Nordic peoples, despite their differing opinions on Ivar as a person, they viewed Hvitserk’s affection for his brother as a natural thing. There was nothing unusual with a brother showing love to a brother. Thus, the Gaelic priests sent missionary envoys to ‘Lord Albann’ with the task of converting him, hoping that he would be their agent in softening his brother’s heart. The pagans on the other hand started to worship Hvitserk alongside their kings – he was the brother of a God, a descendant of Odin.

Ivar never truly understood Christianity nor did he declare himself divine. And yet, he allowed the rumors to circulate both of his divinity and his demonic cruelty.

On his place as his brother’s honored guest, Sigurd watched with fascination as Ivar conducted his kingly duties with a gentle yet fearsome air. He hardly raised his voice the way most rulers did, and yet, there was something about him that made people stand on their toes or fall on their knees.

But behind his chamber’s heavy doors, Ivar seemed to be a different man. For he yielded to Hvitserk completely, almost like a bed slave, surrendered to his brother’s every desire and satisfied him in ways that most people would not believe. Each time it happened, Ivar’s queen was usually present, sometimes watching them, sometimes joining them, sometimes asleep while her husband and brother-in-law enjoyed each other.

There was no jealousy on her part for Hvitserk was her husband’s brother, and the intimacy he and Ivar shared never crossed the bounds of propriety. Hvitserk mostly acknowledged her but never touched her – he wanted Ivar alone, not his queen.

Ivar submitted to them both. Perhaps doing such satisfied him greatly as well. The king’s position was a tiresome job, and in Sigurd’s mind, allowing himself to be dominated by others gave Ivar the illusion of lifting the many burdens off of his shoulders, even if only for a night.

Every time he visited, Sigurd had the privilege of witnessing all that. On his own room separated only from the king’s by very thin walls, he could hear the sweet, sweet sounds of pleasure his little brother made. Through the hole in that wall, he saw everything. And he touched his hardened sex, pleasuring himself, for that was his only respite. Ivar was someone he could gaze upon but never have, so near and yet so far away.

But whenever the queen was not around, Sigurd noticed that Hvitserk would become a more aggressive master, more inflamed, more passionate. Still, Ivar yielded to him. And to that, Sigurd realized that Ivar was putting their elder brother to the test, perhaps measuring how far his loyalty would go.

For at times, whenever they were at the height of ecstasy, Ivar would whisper, “Do you wish to take me, brother?”

Hvitserk would pause for a while and then answer, “I’d love to, but I will not. You know that I will never dishonor you like that.”

During such moments, Sigurd felt both envy and regret painfully squeezing his heart, for he well knew that were he in Hvitserk’s position, he could never resist the temptation.

As he secretly watched his brothers’ bedroom affairs, Sigurd started to doubt if Ivar and Hvitserk truly loved each other. Both his brothers were famed leaders of men, and though Hvitserk was not a king, his followers were so many that even King Olaf had to pay respects to him. Ivar’s own troops were just as numerous, fiercely loyal, and ready to die for their king; the only difference was that each warrior was systematically trained, followed a highly-organized chain of command, and thus, more efficient than most warbands.

Their arrangement was a dangerous thing, a fragile bond between two powerful men and fully dependent on the affection they had for each other. Sigurd thought that perhaps Ivar and Hvitserk were only using each other, perhaps professing love while secretly planning to kill or overthrow the other.

But that idea was shattered one fateful day when Hvitserk was felled by an arrow from the High King of Tara.

It all began with the alliance made with Cerball son of Dunlainge, King of Ossory, one of their first Gaelic allies. The Norse and the Danes knew him as Kjarvalr Irakonungr and his relationship with the kings of Dublin, though shaky, seemed serviceable.

When their domain was established, most Irish kingdoms surrounding them viewed the new Dubliners as threats. And yet, these kingdoms’ hearts and minds were not united. Their opinions on the foreigners greatly differed from one realm to another. Most wanted to drive them away, but there were some who wanted them to stay.

Kjarvalr was one of those who sought their support. He was trying to overthrow his southern overlord, the High King of Munster, and he was using the foreigners for his own ambitions. Ivar did not have a problem with that so long as Kjarvalr helped him against the northern king Mael Sechnaill son of Maele Ruanaid. Their cooperation bore fruit when finally, they took over Mael Sechnaill’s capital at Meath.

But the hearts of men are fickle. Or perhaps blood was indeed thicker than water. For Kjarvalr was swayed by his kinsman, the High King of Tara, and betrayed his foreign allies.

Surrounded at enemy territory and with their former ally now turned against them, Sigurd saw how Ivar’s horse was felled by an arrow, how his brother fell along with it, how his personal guard attempted to shield him at the cost of their own lives. Sigurd tried to rescue him but he and his own troops were on a lock against the fearless Kjarvalr.

But Hvitserk left his army to save his little brother and transferred Ivar to his own horse. Sigurd greatly marvelled at how Hvitserk managed to do it. After a while, he realized that his elder brother’s seemingly impossible feat was done due to his disregard for his own life. For both of Hvitserk’s shoulders, arms, and one of his legs were struck with arrows intended for his younger brother.

As Ivar started to command the troops again, his warriors now gaining against the retreating Irish, a wayward arrow from the High King himself was launched directly at him without him noticing. And once again, Hvitserk, struggling to stand and perhaps unable to pick up his shield, used his own body to protect his brother.

At that moment, the arrow lodged itself on his neck and he fell to the ground.

Upon seeing his older brother’s fall, Ivar took his axe and hurled it towards Mael Sechnaill himself.

To the High King’s surprise, the axe reached him, cutting a leg off of his horse. But Mael Sechnaill was immediately pulled up by Kjarvalr himself, and they, with what remained of their armies, rode off.

With Hvitserk seemingly at death’s door, Sigurd expected Ivar to simply yield their brother’s life to the Gods. This was a chance to gain full control of Dublin, perhaps even defeating Olaf himself. For their older brother’s army when combined with Ivar’s was immensely greater than the White King’s.

But Ivar’s mind was clearly set on saving Hvitserk’s life. Upon their enemies’ retreat, he immediately called upon the members of the healers’ troop to take care of his brother.

As the healers carefully dislodged the arrow from Hvitserk’s neck, Sigurd saw how Ivar’s eyes were glazed with tears, prevented only from falling by his intense self-control. But when their brother was finally stitched and firmly bandaged, his wounds stopped from its bleeding, it was as though the skies had been opened and Ivar’s tears flowed like rain.

And he came down from his dignified place on his chair, crawled to his brother’s level, and carefully took one of Hvitserk’s bandaged hands and kissed it many times amid words of praises to the Gods for not yet taking his brother’s life.

At that moment, Sigurd’s own heart started to beat painfully. It wasn’t the right time to feel this bitterness, but he couldn’t help but wish that he were the one struck with arrows instead. Or if he were, would Ivar shed those tears for him the way he does for Hvitserk? Would he also kiss him the same way?

It was shameful, his thoughts. But what was more shameful was that he was wishing for something he did not earn. For Hvitserk deserved Ivar’s love due to his great sacrifice. But what of him? What has Sigurd ever done?

After a while, Hvitserk’s eyes opened albeit very slightly and upon looking around, he saw Ivar holding his hand. And despite the great difficulty, he touched Ivar’s face and then he whispered, “Are you alright, little brother? Are you hurt anywhere?”

And Ivar answered, his voice strong despite his tears, “I’m alright. Don’t worry about me.” He kissed his brother’s hand once more and said, “We shall unleash our revenge against our enemies, hm? But for now, please rest. Preserve your strength, dear Hvitserk. Sleep now.”

They retreated back to Dublin, back to their fortress before the enemy could regroup. And as they did so, Ivar never left Hvitserk’s side, his one hand firmly but tenderly holding his brother’s own. His other hand adjusted the fabrics surrounding his older brother, making him as comfortable on their chariot ride as possible.

Upon beholding such sight, King Olaf wistfully sighed, “So sweet is a brother’s love, so warm, so tender and kind. Better than a woman’s affections, mayhap, better than a God’s. In my heart of hearts, in my being deep within, wretched fellow that I am, that love is one I most desire.”

Sigurd shuddered at that, his intense emotions almost getting the better of him. Oh, how he desired that very same thing.

While Hvitserk was at rest, carefully tended by his wives and healers, Sigurd beheld his younger brother’s darker self. For although Ivar was immensely tender to those he loved, his vengeance towards his enemies was slow to disappear and bore no mercy.

And yet his revenge was subtle and seemingly passive for he understood the minds of men, their hearts and desires, the way he could move them to the palm of his hand.

After that fateful battle, Meath was once more fortified by the Irish. The Dublin Norse desired to ransack it once more. But unlike their previous excursions which only sought the kingdom’s riches, under Ivar’s command, their new mandate was to destroy Mael Sechnaill and his progeny, to subjugate the High King’s people completely and to lower them into the lowliest of thralls.

King Olaf was delighted. The High King of Tara had long been a thorn on his side, had long been his greatest obstacle for his long-term goal of subjugating Pictland and its king Causantin.

And so, it was arranged. They sent a suit to the nobleman Aed son of Neill, also called Aed Findliath, gave him an offer of marriage in exchange for military support. For this lord was Mael Sechnaill’s greatest rival for the High Throne; their inner squabble would be immensely useful to break apart the Irish nation.

True enough, Aed accepted and sent Olaf his own daughter, so great was his aspiration for kingship that he would ally with anyone to fulfill this desire.

Thus, it started, the long rivalry that would tear Ireland apart. With Aed Findliath’s aid, the Dubliners attacked Mael Sechnaill’s domains and plundered their riches. But for each abbey or church sacked by the foreigners, Aed restored it afterwards, thus earning a reputation of his Christian piety among his people.

When Mael Sechnaill and Kjarvalr retaliated with their Norse-Gael mercenaries, Aed fought them alongside Olaf’s warriors. Sometimes he won, sometimes he lost. But each time he went to battle, he always said that he was repelling the invaders despite him consorting with them.

To Sigurd, it was a mind-boggling affair and yet the results were very satisfying. For the truth was quite clear – the Irish were killing each other, paying the Dubliners to kill their kinsmen, wasting their precious gold and silver all the while making themselves slaves of the very foreigners they professed to hate.

As the war raged on, Sigurd travelled around the world bolstering his own name. And each time he returned to Dublin, he found Ivar’s treasure hoards growing larger and larger.

In time, Hvitserk was fully healed, more of Ivar’s children were born, and Mael Sechnaill finally died. Aed Findliath claimed the High Throne and yet the land was even more fractured than before.

Despite the declarations of victory against the foreigners, many Irish remained thralls in Dublin, downtrodden and subjugated, forgotten by their heroes. With his people enslaved and in terrible conditions, and with his noble kinsmen continuing to usurp each other’s powers, Mael Sechnaill’s dream of a united Ireland was destroyed. By thus, Ivar had his revenge and obtained riches at the same time.

And as reports about the terrible Imar of Dublin struck fear upon the hearts of his enemies, Ivar sat on his throne and shared his wealth with the ones he loved the most.

-

As King Ragnar grew older, so did his body grow weaker, and yet his battle-thirsty spirit never dampened. And so, upon his recovery from his illness, he resumed his raiding career with as much vigour as he could muster.

Queen Aslaug was left upon the throne once more, but she now started to tire of the duties thrust upon her by her station. At first, she called upon Bjorn, her husband’s heir. But the king’s eldest son refused to leave his Swedish domains, so immersed was he on the goings-on of that land and the affairs of his father-in-law Hastein. 

None of her other sons answered her call for all of them were quite established in their own lands. In a show of respect to his beloved mother, Ivar sent her some of his troops and servants whose mission was to protect Aslaug and keep her company. And yet the queen was not satisfied.

Left without a choice, she started to take notice of the one son she had neglected for most of his life. So it happened – she made Sigurd sit upon her husband’s throne to rule on his parents’ stead. And each time King Ragnar returned, he affirmed Sigurd’s position, declaring him the most loyal of his sons for staying by his father’s side throughout the years.

Sigurd was quite perplexed at first, for he had never been properly trained to hold such duties. But his time in Dublin had taught him a lot. Ironic as it was, his youngest brother had educated him far better than their parents on the matters of the state.

And so, in imitation of his little brother, Sigurd raised the banners anew – Kraka, the raven, his mother’s namesake and his father’s insignia. He had the walls reinforced, the watchtowers and ramparts fortified, the trading centers invigorated by repairing the thoroughfares, and truly oversaw the farmlands through scheduled visits. And with his brothers connected to him by land and by sea, his trading networks grew numerous and his riches piled up. Under his unofficial rule, Denmark began to truly flourish.

Thus, from that moment on, the people looked upon their fourth prince as their leader, regarded him as the king’s true heir, Sigurd Snake-in-the-Eye, the prince of prophecy.

Despite him knowing that the people’s adulation was a sign of success, Sigurd was quite forlorn and very angry. For he was no longer free to roam as he pleased, shackled to the throne like a royal prisoner. How could he visit Dublin now in his current predicament?

But the Gods had not abandoned him yet, for this time, it was his brothers who came to him.

It had become customary for most Dane Vikingrs to raid on springtime, return home for the midsummer and the early part of autumn, and then winter in the warmer outposts of England, Ireland, Frankia, Frisia, and other places where their kinsfolk abound.

So that summertime vacation was no different. What was fascinating for the common peoples was the gathering of King Ragnar’s sons, Danish princes who were now kings and rulers of vast lands abroad. They all convened together to congratulate their crabby brother, the prince who sat on their father’s throne with a perpetually sullen face.

They breakfasted together on King Ragnar’s great house, sat upon their father’s table with their numbers complete.

As he received his brothers’ warm congratulations on his newfound position, Sigurd tried his best to be as accommodating as he could. But old habits die hard and they joked at his sour-faced smile despite his attempts at being hospitable.

Ubbe laughed, then embraced him, kissed him apologetically on the cheek, and said, “I know you try hard, brother. Do not agonize that you are not gracious enough, for we know your true self. No matter how far we’ve been apart and despite the passing of time, you are still our Sigurd.”

To that, Bjorn raised his drinking horn and loudly proclaimed, “To King Sigurd, the Eternally Angry!”

And Hvitserk laughed uncontrollably, so tickled was he with his brother’s words. Even when he tried to stop his giggling, there was no way he could curtail it. Ivar had to rub his back to ease him, all the while shaking his head in amusement.

Sigurd rolled his eyes to that and snorted, “Yes, very funny.” Then he drank his mead, and then told Bjorn, “I am no king.”

Bjorn only chuckled and said, “Oh, nonsense! You are king in all but name. Even father said so.”

Sigurd thought about that for a while and then asked, “Are you not really going to claim your right, brother? After all, you’re still our father’s firstborn.”

Their half-brother only shook his head with a smile, “Denmark has never been my home. Me and my mother left this place a long time ago. Sweden is much, much colder, but it is where my heart belongs.” Then he looked around and asked, “Where’s father?”

And Sigurd sighed, the same long-suffering sigh that Ubbe once did, and then answered, “He left for England. Again.”

Ivar’s brows slightly knitted to that, pausing thoughtfully for a while and then asked, “And how many ships did he bring with him?”

“Only two,” Sigurd replied. “Mother warned him not to go but he could not be stopped.”

“You should have tried to stop him then,” Hvitserk told him.

For that, Sigurd glared at his third brother and said, “Oh, you know father. He’s just like your cock, he can’t be stopped.”

And to his endless chagrin, Hvitserk giggled once more, laughed so hard until he coughed, much to the mirth of his brothers. When he regained his bearings again, Hvitserk gazed at his own crotch and said, “My dear, powerful cock, as strong-willed as the great King Ragnar himself.”

The airheaded dimwit was as indelicate as ever, but how sweet the reward was, for Ivar laughed to that, and then choked on his own wine. At that moment, Sigurd was worried and attempted to give his little brother some beer. But as usual, Hvitserk beat him to it again. And so, Sigurd drank the beer he had poured and angrily sighed.

Bjorn seemed to notice his jealousy but only smiled and raised an eyebrow at Ubbe. And to that, Ubbe only shrugged and said, “Well, some things never change.”

They ate and drank their fill, and when they were finished, they went to their old hunting lodge, the same one Sigurd kept clean and pristine during those long lonely days spent by himself.

But before he went, Sigurd paused and looked to the throne, not wanting to neglect his duties. However, Queen Aslaug was there, and she smiled, the same tentative smile she gave him when he was a child, and she said, “Go with your brothers. Away now.”

And for the very first time, Sigurd realized that in her own selfish way, his mother had loved him too.

Even as his heart ached from seeing Ivar and Hvitserk’s closeness, Sigurd remained happy for his little brother was with him again. And he recognized that he missed Hvitserk too, Ubbe especially, and also Bjorn, missed them so very terribly, the sight of them, their voices, and their loving presence. This was a moment to cherish for there was no telling when they would have the time to gather again like this.

On the river made silvery by the full moon, Hvitserk swam and splashed about, once again putting his fish-catching skills to the test. Bjorn followed him around, stick in hand, ready to poke his younger brother’s sides and laughing at his failure.

And on the large table by the banks roofed with the great oak’s leaves and lit by the surrounding torches, Ivar sat preparing the fish that Sigurd had caught for supper. As usual, Ubbe helped with the preparations while overseeing everyone else, his countenance more mature than their older half-brother, perhaps even more mature than King Ragnar himself.

When they finished salting the fish, Sigurd roasted them over the fire, carefully turning each one over as it slowly cooked. Ivar placed the rye bread, cheese, fruit, nuts, and mint on the table while Ubbe placed two barrels therein along with the drinking cups. There was one small jug as well, wooden and lidded.

Seeing that everything was in order, Ubbe stood to leave. By then, Bjorn and Hvitserk stopped playing around and returned, perhaps lured the by smell of fish being cooked.

Upon seeing Ubbe leave the table, Bjorn asked, “Where are you going, Duke?”

“I’m going for a piss,” Ubbe told him.

“I’ll go with you,” Bjorn said. And as their two eldest brothers walked off, Sigurd heard Bjorn ask again. “What does ‘Duke’ mean anyway?”

“I have no idea,” Ubbe replied truthfully. “It’s just what the Frisians call me. It could mean ‘leader’, ‘soldier’ or ‘nobleman’, I really don’t know. I learned the language but that one word I still don’t understand.”

As their elder brothers disappeared into the dark, Sigurd continued with his cooking. He was happy and nervous at the same time, that same sweet anxiety he always had whenever his youngest brother was near.

In contrast, Hvitserk was as anxiety-free as ever and opened the barrel. When he caught the smell, he complained, “Wine again? Where’s the mead?” Then he opened the other barrel and smiled, “Oh, there you are.” And he scooped a cupful and started to drink.

Upon finishing his task, Sigurd laid the fish on the table and Ivar carefully partitioned them for everyone. And as they waited for their older brothers’ return, Sigurd gazed upon his youngest brother once more.

Ivar had not changed very much. His hair had grown longer and fell down his shoulders unbraided and free, a sign that being back home had made him truly relaxed and unburdened. His beard remained as thin as ever, almost nothing. And now that he had temporarily cast off the royal trappings of a king, Sigurd saw how young his brother was, how vulnerable and beautiful, a striking difference from the fearsome reputation he had built.

It was no wonder that Hvitserk guarded their little brother so closely, almost sacrificing his own life in the process. And to that, Sigurd sighed, remembering his younger brother’s tears. He had wanted to kiss those away and yet he did not for he wasn’t brave, had never been brave, and perhaps never will.

Perhaps he had noticed Sigurd looking at their brother, perhaps he was just being his usual self, but Hvitserk inserted himself once again. He gave Ivar a cupful of mead and told Sigurd, “Our food is getting cold. You should call our brothers.”

Sigurd snorted at that and ignored him, turning to Ivar instead. He wanted to thank Hvitserk for making him angry for it was his anger that caused him to tell his little brother, “Why are you imbibing that cheap peasant’s drink? You are a king so drink wine instead.”

Ivar only smiled to that, wiped his lips with the back of his hand, and answered, “Perhaps I’m sick of drinking the expensive fare. Now this cheap peasant’s drink is more tasteful to me.”

“Ah,” Sigurd uttered, his anger still heating his head. Then he opened the small jug and filled two cups with the wine therein. And then he pushed both cups towards his little brother and said, “I understand your predilections. Still, isn’t it more proper for you to drink according to your station, king?”

To that, his younger brother nodded in acquiescence, perhaps aiming to appease him, and took one of the cups.

And then Sigurd said, “Careful, my king. One of those cups is poisoned.”

Hvitserk angrily unsheathed his sword but Ivar stayed his hand, his eyes twinkling in amusement. It was a sight Sigurd had always craved, and this time, he was greatly elated that those eyes were fixed on him. His mind was also piqued, curious of what his younger brother might do next.

And to his greatest surprise, Ivar drank from the cup, drained it fully, and then took the other one and did the same. Then he looked into Sigurd’s eyes and gently asked, “Am I poisoned now, dear brother?”

Sigurd’s jaw dropped, so amazed was he of his brother’s actions. And then Ivar smiled sweetly and answered his own question, “Of course not. You wouldn’t dare now, would you?”

That was one of the most astounding things he had witnessed in his entire life and Sigurd could do no more but shudder, so greatly defeated was he.

At that point, their older brothers returned and at last, they feasted merrily. Hvitserk ate his fill but his eyes were angrily fixed on Sigurd. Bjorn noticed their tension again but he didn’t do or say anything.

When they finished their repast, chewed their mint, and tidied everything up, Ubbe took the small jug, and upon discovering that it grew lighter, he asked, “Who drank this?”

Sigurd feigned anger and scowled, and then said, “Ivar did.”

Hvitserk immediately leaped to his little brother’s rescue and said, “No, you made him drink it.” And he anxiously asked his older brother, “Why, is it poisoned?”

Ubbe frowned for a while but only shrugged afterwards, and he did not answer Hvitserk’s query but asked their youngest brother, “How much did you drink?”

Ivar blinked a bit and said, “Two cups.”

And Hvitserk pressed their older brother some more, “Is it poisoned?”

“Oh no, this isn’t poison,” Ubbe replied matter-of-factly. “This is an aphrodisiac, Frankish-made, quite potent. One cup could keep even an old man going for an entire night.”

Upon hearing that, Sigurd froze. Now he just as anxious as Hvitserk was, for his little brother’s health might have just been compromised and it was all his fault.

But Bjorn laughed out loud, shaking his head. When Hvitserk glared at him, he only said, “What? It’s not harmful at all.” And he told Ubbe, “I’d like some of that.”

And as if to assuage Sigurd’s fears, Ubbe nonchalantly clutched the jug to himself, unconcerned of the effects of his potion. And he said to their half-brother, “No way. I bought this for my concubines so they’d keep me entertained all night.”

Bjorn chuckled some more, and to Sigurd’s great surprise, their firstborn brother patted him strongly on his back and told him, “Now, instead of being so angry all the time, why don’t you take responsibility for your little brother and thus enjoy your life for once?”

And when Hvitserk angrily went to their half-brother, mayhap about to punch him, Bjorn laughingly raised his hands and said, “Relax, brother. Ivar drank two cups so there’s enough strength for you and for Sigurd. Now stop being so jealous, be a good big brother, and lead your little brothers over there.” And he gestured towards the nearby cabin.

On Ivar’s part, he didn’t look in pain, quite the contrary. He was even more relaxed than before and he only blinked, first normally and then much slower, and said, “I feel sleepy.”

“Yes, that’s how it is at first,” Ubbe told him, his hand still firmly clutching the jug to his chest. “Go sleep for a while, because when you wake afterwards, the effects will start.”

Alarmed at his older brother’s words, Hvitserk immediately swept Ivar in his arms and spirited him into the wooden lodge.

Upon seeing that, Ubbe smiled lightly but meaningfully. And most astonishingly, he came up to Sigurd and said unto him, “I know you for a cautious man. But if you second-guess yourself all the time, you will never achieve what you most desire. Now you have the chance, so do what you must. Don’t deny the Gods.”

And his older brother turned his back and went his way. Bjorn took one of the torches and trailed after him, still trying to take the jug. When Ubbe ran away, Bjorn ran after him and they disappeared into the deep woodlands.

When he was finally alone, Sigurd touched his chest and found his heart pumping wildly. And he closed his eyes in gratitude. The Gods were merciful indeed for giving him this opportunity.

And so, he breathed deeply, opened his eyes once more, and went towards the cabin. This was a sacred moment, and so, he must ready himself. For unexpectedly, he chanced upon a special night, a holy night, the time to worship Freyr.

_-_

_tbc_


	5. Chapter 5

When he entered the wooden lodge, Sigurd found that Hvitserk had not bothered to close the door, for all his attention was on Ivar who already lay on the bed asleep. Perhaps to ease him from the summer heat, Hvitserk had taken off most of their little brother’s clothing leaving only his loose undershirt and trousers. And how peaceful he looked, as tranquil as a sleeping child without a care in the world, his one hand clutching a pillow to his side and the other at rest on the side of his head.

As Sigurd beheld his brother’s resting form, what came to mind was the tale of Brynhild, the valkyrie awakened from an enchanted slumber by a kiss from the hero Sigurd, the dragonslayer. And he swallowed hard, his heart’s foolishness getting the better of him. For when Hvitserk turned to him, his older brother’s mighty figure and the intensity of his eyes evoked the Allfather himself, Brynhild’s guardian, the God Odin who cast a sleeping spell upon his disobedient charge and imprisoned her in a ring of fire.

“This is all your fault,” Hvitserk told him, and with that Sigurd came back to reality. He realized once more that he was still on Midgard, that these were his brothers and that he did not have to leap into the fire to get closer to Ivar, that all he needed to do was to muster his courage and step forward.

Indeed, when Sigurd took but one step, Ivar started to awaken, his eyes slightly opening, his fingers touching Hvitserk’s hand. Upon feeling that, their older brother turned to him and asked, “Are you alright, little brother? How do you feel?”

“Thirsty,” Ivar replied, his voice so soft, almost a whisper, his eyes fluttering once more into a close.

Hvitserk nodded and said, “I’ll get you something to drink. Wait for me.”

And then he stood up, walked towards Sigurd, and said, “I ought to take your head for this. But you are still our brother, and so, I can’t. There are more pressing matters at hand, so I’m commanding you to stay here and be responsible for him.”

Upon seeing Sigurd’s hesitation, he told him, “He may have forgotten that you kissed him on this very same bed, but I haven’t. I admit, I’m still quite loth about it, and I am very angry with you right now. But because of this disaster you caused, as much as I hate it, we need to cooperate. Do you understand me?”

To that, their older brother proved that he was no Odin but an airheaded fool. His jealousy was obvious and yet he didn’t drive his younger brother away. And so, thanking the Gods for this blessing, Sigurd nodded in agreement and sat on the bed.

Seeing that, Hvitserk, smiled dryly and said, “You sly fox. This is what you wanted all along.”

Despite his words, their older brother left and went back to the table where the two barrels of beverages remained.

Now that he was left alone with his little brother, Sigurd’s heart thumped more rapidly than before. True, this was what he had always wanted, nay, dreamed with a shameless ardor for years and years. And yet, now that Ivar was here, suddenly, he did not know what to do. And when he attempted to touch his brother’s hand resting on the pillow, he found that his own hands were shaking.

Whether it was fear, whether it was the intensity of his desire, Sigurd found that his own self was his most notorious enemy. For no matter the help thrust upon him from the outside, it was his foe from the inside that blocked him from reaching out his hand.

Fate seemed to have been weary of his slowness for Hvitserk had returned with the barrel and placed it upon the floor, then he locked the door. And when he looked once more to the bed, he found that Sigurd had not touched their brother, and thus, his gaze grew less angry than before.

At that moment, Ivar opened his eyes once again. This time, he didn’t look drowsy and yet there was something different about him, something that made Sigurd think that his little brother was not fully awake.

For Ivar looked upon him with a very different gaze, too warm and too tender. And even though Sigurd greatly craved those wide eyes fixed upon him with that loving stare, he understood that it was not for him. To confirm that, Ivar smiled and called to him, “Hvitserk.”

Sigurd’s heart seemed to have been pierced by a knife, but he remained on his position therein and made no move forward, nor did he retreat.

Ivar tilted his head, his hair spreading on the pillow. Then he reached out his hand and tugged at Sigurd’s long braid, pulling him closer. “You look strange, brother.” And then he cupped his older brother’s face in his palms and pulled him closer still until Sigurd could smell his mint-scented breath. “You’re paler than usual. And you’re shaking. Are you sick?”

Sigurd wanted to answer that he was shaking from the intense heat in his blood and the ache in his heart, but his tongue would not follow his command and he remained muted, staring at his little brother fully enraptured yet paralyzed.

Their older brother saw and heard everything. Now, he approached them, his hand holding a mug of mead, and he said aloud, “No, I’m not sick. But you are thirsty, so here, drink this.”

Upon hearing that, Ivar tore his eyes away from Sigurd and abruptly sat up, looking at Hvitserk with the most astonished countenance. When Hvitserk sat on the other side of the bed and offered him the drink, Ivar opened his lips to say something, but he refrained from doing so, took the mug from his older brother and drank, seemingly mystified by some occurrence that only he could see.

And when his thirst was quenched, Ivar placed the mug on the bedside table and then he looked carefully at his elder brothers one after the other, his eyes slightly narrowed. And he said to no one in particular, “What sort of trick is this? I see two Hvitserks, one on my left and one on my right. I don’t understand. What is happening, hm?”

Thanks to his little brother’s incredibly strange words, Sigurd found his voice again and asked, “Are you drunk?”

Ivar laughed slightly, dismissively waved his question off and said, “I’m not drunk. How many mugs did I drink at supper? Five? Ten? I can drink an entire barrel, no, ten barrels, and not get drunk.”

That was an odd reply, one Sigurd was not used to. For he had never heard Ivar boast like that, not directly. His little brother was an extremely subtle man even in the privacy of his own bedroom. Right now, he was clearly not himself.

But Hvitserk only sighed and said, “If you say so. How are you feeling? Do you feel dizzy?”

“How could I be dizzy? I told you, I’m not drunk,” Ivar insisted. “Look, I’m quite awake. Don’t nag me, Hvitserk on the right.”

The nickname caught Sigurd off guard, and he chuckled despite himself, his nerves starting to loosen up a bit. Upon hearing him, Ivar stared at him with an affronted look on his face. Then he took the pillow and pummelled Sigurd on the head with it.

“Stop mocking me, Hvitserk on the left.”

It didn’t even hurt, and so, Sigurd only shook his head. Hvitserk glowered at him, took another pillow and smacked Sigurd with it.

To that Ivar said, “Don’t torment yourself, Hvitserk. Don’t imitate me. Look, I’ll apologize to your other self.” And he turned to Sigurd and said with a slight bow, “I didn’t mean to do that. Please forgive me.”

Truly, his little brother was not on his right mind at the moment, mayhap the effect of drinking too much of Ubbe’s potion. Sigurd was afraid for a moment and then remembered their older brothers’ nonchalance. This effect would eventually wear off and Ivar would return to his true self afterwards. But at the moment, he was under a spell, and as bittersweet as it was, this was Sigurd’s only chance to be with him.

When his mind was focused once more on his younger brother, Sigurd was confused, for Ivar had brought his face closer to him, his eyes closed. And Sigurd asked, “What are you doing?”

Ivar didn’t open his eyes and only said, “I apologized, so you have to forgive me.”

Sigurd clenched his fists, trying to contain his arousal down. Just looking at his brother was enough to make his blood boil; this proximity was setting him afire even more. It was very difficult to speak in his condition but he managed to say, “I-I forgive you. But what are you doing?”

“Waiting for your forgiveness,” Ivar said, pointing a finger to his lips.

And when Sigurd moved his eyes to Hvitserk asking for permission, he found his older brother glaring at him but gestured with his hand and said, “Go ahead, snail-brain.”

He turned unto his younger brother once more, swallowed hard, and after a few moments of hazy deliberation with himself, he came closer and pressed his lips to Ivar’s.

It was a very soft kiss, a simple pressing of lips. Sigurd wanted more and yet he refrained from doing so. For despite his outward demeanor staying the same, he had grown on the inside and he was no longer his younger, more hot-headed self. And so, even if Hvitserk had implicitly assented to this, to take such opportunity without his little brother’s affirmation wouldn’t be right. Sigurd needed Ivar’s consent no matter how dubious it might be.

And he immediately had it. For when they separated, Ivar opened his eyes and asked him, “Is that all?” When Sigurd did not answer him, he took his fourth brother’s hand and placed it upon his hardened sex, then he said unto him, “Why are you so shy, brother? We’ve been doing this for years.”

At last he couldn’t take it anymore, and so, Sigurd pushed Ivar onto the bed. But Hvitserk intervened at that moment, took one of the discarded pillows and placed it under Ivar’s head. Then he said, “Carry on.”

Sigurd stared at his older brother for a while, and despite his sex raring to go, he kept his wits and asked, “Are you sure?”

Hvitserk sighed angrily, started to undress himself, and said, “Do it before I change my mind.”

And so, Sigurd turned to Ivar who simply lay there, waiting for him. He bit his lip at the sight and went closer and closer still until their foreheads are touching, and he whispered, “Are you sure?”

Ivar whispered back, “Yes. But you seem discontented, Hvitserk. Do you want me to beg?”

To that, Sigurd kissed his younger brother, kissed him so deeply. Ivar seemed surprised at his sudden move but he did not protest, he opened himself and received Sigurd completely. And because this was his only chance, Sigurd made the most of it. He drank on Ivar’s mouth, suckled on his sweet, sweet tongue, delved in as deep as he could reach.

Then he had to part with him for he had forgotten to breathe, so overwhelmed was he by his heart and his body’s demands. His mind still swirling, Sigurd said, “You don’t have to beg.”

Hearing that, Ivar chuckled and said, “I’ll just command you then. Touch me.”

Sigurd obeyed and found that his brother was very hard, mayhap as hard as he was. And so, he moved to unlace Ivar’s breeches. To his surprise, it was laced in such a way that he couldn’t pull it open.

Hvitserk sighed at the side and said, “Let me help you.” And with just one pull, it was opened, and he told Sigurd. “There you go, carry on.”

Greatly mystified by his older brother’s actions, Sigurd paused a bit. But he reminded himself that this was no time to think – this was the time to act. Thus, he unlaced his own breeches and removed his shirt and undershirt as fast as possible.

However, when he had undressed, he found Ivar’s lips fully occupied, invaded by Hvitserk. Seeing he had no other recourse, he opted to suckle on his little brother’s neck instead, aligned their leaking cocks together and moved. And his sex rubbed with Ivar’s, trapped by their bodies so closely pressed together. That initial slippery wetness from the both of them created a delicious friction that almost sent him to Halls of the Aesir. Perhaps his little brother felt the same for he seemed to have moaned, the sound of it muffled by Hvitserk still tasting his mouth.

Sigurd lifted his head for a while. At that time, there was no room for jealousy and his cock was even more satisfied, for Ivar and Hvitserk looked so beautiful together, their mouths locked so sweetly. And so, he chose to watch them while he moved, rubbing his sex with his younger brother’s with an increasing intensity.

After a while, Hvitserk’s lips moved to kiss the sides of Ivar’s face, and then he lifted his little brother’s hand which had stayed on the side and kissed it as well. Aiming to fill the void, Sigurd moved in, his mouth claiming Ivar’s, his tongue entering where his older brother had been.

Due to his desire unfulfilled for so long, Sigurd could feel himself craving for more, and so, he moved faster, faster still, his mouth unforgivingly taking his brother’s. Ivar never protested – he could not complain with words, obviously – but he never pushed him away. Instead, his little brother’s fingers were caressing Sigurd’s neck, mayhap encouraging him to take his pleasure as much as he wanted.

Sigurd went faster and faster, but there has to be an end to it and he reached the pinnacle. And so, he released, his seed erupting between their bodies. And then, he found out that his brother was pleased with what he had done, for Ivar had released as well.

Even so, he didn’t immediately let go of Ivar’s mouth. For despite him temporarily blacking out Sigurd kept kissing him, sometimes deeply, sometimes lightly. Still not content, he bit Ivar’s lower lip and upon hearing his brother’s surprised gasp, he laughed lightly and then suckled it to soothe the pain. Then he pressed his lips on his little brother’s cheek, the same way he had always dreamed of for years. And to that, he felt Ivar’s lips tugging into a slight smile, and his little brother whispered, “I love you, Hvitserk.”

And Sigurd’s world fell again, the pain piercing him so deeply that tears unexpectedly escaped from his eyes. Ivar’s eyes fluttered open and he saw his older brother’s embarrassing state. But his smile widened even more at the sight, and it was a smile so sweet that Sigurd’s heart broke even more. And Ivar said unto him, “Were you so happy that you cried?”

To that, Sigurd could not answer and he made his face as stony he could despite his tears. Hvitserk, already naked, who had been watching them throughout and with his sex fully erect, answered for him, “Yes, he is very happy. Now, it’s my turn. Make me happy.”

And to that, Ivar laughed and said, “Yes, I’ll make you happy. No matter how many Hvitserks there are, I’ll do my best make you happy because I love you, Hvitserk.”

Upon hearing those words, Sigurd was so devastated that he stood up to leave. But Hvitserk held his arm strongly and asked, “Where are you going?”

Sigurd’s teeth clenched both from anger and hurt and he said, “You pig-brained, airheaded dimwit! Isn’t it obvious to you? I’m fucking leaving!”

Hvitserk only chuckled, his grip getting stronger, and he said, “Who said you can leave? The night isn’t over. Until his cock is fully spent, you have to stay.”

And when Sigurd tried to escape his hold, Hvitserk smiled darkly and said, “Do you think I want to share? I didn’t want you crawling over his body, but your mistake left me without a choice. This is all your fault. So be a man and suffer it to the end.”

When he heard his brothers’ seeming quarrel, Ivar looked upon Sigurd. His face was alert and yet his eyes looked even more foggy than before, his cheeks flushed dark pink but less ruddy than his lips swollen with kisses. And he told Sigurd, “Please don’t go, Hvitserk. After your other self is finished with me, you can have me again. Please don’t be angry, brother.”

And when their little brother touched his hand, in spite of the pain squeezing his heart, Sigurd chose to stay. Seeing his resistance fading, Hvitserk released him and went to work once again with the business at hand.

As his older brother started kissing and touching Ivar again, Sigurd hastily wiped his tears with the back of his hand and then sat back on the bed, this time on the right side. He had never thought that reality would be as painful as this, but he comforted himself with the thought – even if Ivar saw him as Hvitserk, Sigurd could still enjoy this as much as he can and store everything in his memory. And afterwards, when Ivar regains himself and becomes as distant as he had always been, Sigurd could look upon these memories to console both his heart and his cock.

 _Yes,_ he thought to himself, _this isn’t so bad._

Thus, to make the most out of his predicament, Sigurd lay on his little brother’s pillow and kissed Ivar’s cheek. Perhaps out of pity, Hvitserk made way for him, released Ivar’s mouth, and pressed his lips on the other side of their little brother’s face instead, and then his mouth started to travel downwards. Taking advantage of his older brother’s unusual generosity, Sigurd moved into Hvitserk’s former territory and claimed their youngest brother’s lips yet again.

No matter how bitter his heart was, this kiss was so sweet, and so Sigurd indulged himself and was rewarded with Ivar’s hands rising to touch his cheeks and his neck, his moans muffled by Sigurd’s mouth and probing tongue.

And so, Sigurd allowed himself to be drowned by the sensations inflaming his entire being, allowed himself to fly into the realms of pleasure. He knew he was deceiving his heart but at least his body was satisfied.

As he fully enjoyed the moment, Sigurd’s sex hardened once more and he pressed himself on Ivar’s side. Upon feeling his elder brother’s cock poking him, despite being robbed of both speech and clear sight, Ivar understood Sigurd’s need and he moved his hand to touch his brother down there. And Sigurd was so grateful that he momentarily stopped plundering his little brother’s mouth to gasp at the sudden pleasure of it.

Sensing the new vacancy, Hvitserk moved up and slipped right in. Sigurd didn’t begrudge him that. His older brother had once acceded to him, and now, it is his time to give way.

Through the night, they moved harmoniously, taking pleasure then giving way. Ivar simply let them be and yielded to them both, like the sweet earth lying placidly beneath the sky while being flowed upon by two rivers.

Like the seasons going round and round in a cycle, their pleasure built up then reached its climax, and then fell down into relaxation, and then it started all over again.

It was already morning. The candles had completely burned out and the sun’s bright rays slipped into the window’s cracks. Even so, their obligation was not yet over for the effect of Ubbe’s potion was very strong indeed.

Hvitserk nudged Sigurd’s sleeping form on the other side of the bed, his breathing very heavy, and said unto him, “Come on, brother, it’s your turn.” And when his younger brother did not wake, he took the remnants of Ivar’s torn underclothes and smacked Sigurd with it. “Wake up! This is your fucking fault. Take responsibility for it.”

And even though Sigurd was already awake, he refused to move. He was so tired, mayhap already more boneless than his youngest brother’s legs. When Hvitserk suddenly pulled his hair, he yelped loudly, surprised.

“Ah, finally,” Hvitserk told him, the anger in his voice very apparent. “You wanted this, so enjoy.” And when Sigurd got up to take his position, Hvitserk rolled to lie on his back, then he closed his eyes and muttered, “Dear Gods! I’m so exhausted.”

Sigurd snorted to that, but his smugness was cut short when Ivar’s arms suddenly came up and squeezed him very tightly. And he was pulled down, unable to escape, and he struggled to say, “Oh little brother, you look so delicate all the time. Sometimes I forget how strong you really are.”

Ivar only laughed to that and said, “Again, brother!”

“Alright, alright,” Sigurd said to appease him, “just allow me to breathe first.”

True enough, Ivar loosened his embrace, still giggling. Sigurd noticed that as they progressed on, his little brother had grown groggier than before, his words sounding more and more like a child’s. And this time, as he waited for Sigurd to muster his strength, Ivar started humming, his fingers playing with his older brother’s braids.

And Sigurd asked him, “Brother, why do I need to release too? I can just touch you, you know.”

Ivar answered, “No. I told you I’m going to make you very happy, so we have to do this together. Love doesn’t just go one way. It is very unjust that you please me if I don’t please you back.”

Even though he knew that those words were not really meant for him, Sigurd’s heart was so warmed by that. And so, he smiled and said, “Of course. Yes, it’s better to do this together.”

When he leaned down to kiss his brother, despite his earlier complaints, it seemed like his strength had returned once again. It had to, Sigurd resolved, for when the effects of the potion’s spell wore off, he would never have his little brother like this ever again.

But then, as he started to touch his little brother, Ivar started to soften, and then sleepily said, “I worry for my daughter.”

Sigurd did not know what to make of that and he gently lay on his brother’s side, thinking of a reply. But Hvitserk who was supposed to be asleep and resting spoke for him, “Your youngest child? What of her?”

“Haven’t you noticed, brother? She’s already four winters old and yet she cannot utter a word,” Ivar said. “The healers told me that her tongue was too short, thus, she could never speak.”

Looking upon his brother, Sigurd saw how Ivar’s eyes were as foggy as ever and yet filled with sadness. And then Ivar blinked slowly and said, “She’s defective just like her father. I do not know which one is the better fate – to be unable to walk or to be unable to speak. I doubt that she will ever marry. What man would want a wife who can only make incoherent sounds?”

To that, Hvitserk laughed, “Many men. Haven’t you noticed, brother? The best women are those who can only make incoherent sounds in bed.”

And Ivar laughed as well, and then he inclined his head to Hvitserk’s direction and said, “Now I know that you are the real Hvitserk.”

Hearing that, Hvitserk rose into a sitting position, his tangled braids falling over his shoulder. And he asked, “How so?”

“Because when I am sad, you always try to make me laugh and ease my burdens,” Ivar replied. Then he ran his fingers on his older brother’s chest and arms. “And here are your scars. Even if I close my eyes, I’d know where they are. You almost died so many times for my sake. I do not know how to repay you, truly.”

Hvitserk chuckled and yet Sigurd saw his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Love needs no payment. Do you remember what I told you a long time ago? My heart is yours, my life is yours. So why would these scars matter to me if these were carved for your sake?”

Sigurd did not want to hear it, these words of love between his brothers, for the pain it caused him was killing him so softly. It only set in stone what he had always known, that his little brother will always be out of his reach no matter what he did.

But neither Ivar nor Hvitserk understood his suffering. It was as though he was fully invisible to them.

And his little brother smiled gently at their older brother’s words and asked, “Why do you love me, Hvitserk?”

Hvitserk pressed his lips together for a while as though searching for an answer, and then he said, “Hm, I will answer you when this dream is over.”

To that, Ivar blinked both surprised and drowsy. “This is a dream?”

“Yes, a dream,” Hvitserk said. “See? My other self is here and has not disappeared yet.”

And Ivar turned to Sigurd and said, “Oh. There is your other self.” He stared at Sigurd sleepily and then said, “Why are you crying, other Hvitserk? Are you sad?”

Sigurd had no words to say. He could not stop the tears no matter what. Still, he did not want to be embarrassed even further by sobbing uncontrollably, so his only option was to shut his mouth.

“Don’t worry,” Ivar told him softly. “Even if you’re only an illusion, you are still my Hvitserk, so I love you too.” Then he reached out his hand to Sigurd. But as fate would have it, their hands never touched for Ivar had fallen asleep.

When he tidied and dressed himself up, Sigurd was silent, never uttered a word. His older brother tried to console him with kind words, and when it didn’t work, with his usual indelicate jokes. But he waved him off, preferring not to say anything.

Mindless work was where he thrived, and so, Sigurd cleaned the entire cabin, scraped the molten remnants of the candles off of the floor and the tables, washed the wooden floors and the walls with water and then wiped it dry and waxed it until everything was pristine and spotless. He took the furs and beat them hard until they were dust-free. He took the curtains, even the blankets they had stained, and washed them on the river. He did it with speed and accuracy for that was his specialty.

And when he was done, his heart was still heavy but definitely cleansed.

Upon his return, Ivar was still asleep. And he rested so peacefully, now dressed in Hvitserk’s undershirt. As he beheld his little brother’s form, Sigurd’s heart started whispering to him once again. But this time, he chose to ignore it. Now, he wore his mask of displeased indifference. And he said to his older brother, “Should we carry him home or should I have the servants bring your breakfast here?”

Hvitserk opened his lips to speak, perhaps attempting to comfort his younger brother once again. But upon beholding Sigurd’s countenance, he chose to smile sadly and then said, “Please have the breakfast brought here. Please have some clothes sent as well.”

Sigurd nodded and went straight to the great house. As he walked the forested path, he felt so empty as if his heart had disappeared completely. And yet in the deepest recesses of his very being, he knew that his feelings were still there, lurking just below the surface. He realized that his wretched love might never disappear, mayhap even torture him for the rest of his life. After all, he had always been someone too slow to move on from the past, too slow to accept change. But there was something that could distract him from his infuriating emotions – duty, honor, responsibility.

Those were the virtues of the Gods, the virtues taught by their ancestors. And perhaps living by those ideals could occupy him so thoroughly until his feelings would finally wither and die without him noticing.

And so, upon arriving home, his commanding mien remained. He directed the servants to do as Hvitserk had requested and then he went straight to his room. Then he took off his casual clothes and put on his royal garments, the marks of his authority. He might not be a king yet but the power was already in his hands. Might as well show it to everyone to make them realize who rules the place.

When he came out, his mother was there, relieved that her son would now take the reins of governance from her tired hands.

With that, Sigurd sat upon his father’s throne and quietly commanded his heart to harden.

For a king needed not the distractions of the heart. A true king desired nothing but to fulfill his duties to his people, to his ancestors, and to the Gods.

-

Summertime was almost over and Sigurd’s brothers started to pack their things, preparing to sail back to their respective kingdoms and domains. There was a questioning look upon Bjorn’s and Ubbe’s faces that had remained throughout their stay. But none of their older brothers spoke about it.

Six days before their scheduled departure, Bjorn finally asked, “What happened that night?”

Ivar thought about it and said, “After dinner, I was very dizzy. I think I fell asleep. Then, I had a very bizarre dream. There were two Hvitserks and they were quarrelling. I can’t remember anything else.”

When their brothers turned to Hvitserk, he only looked down and kept eating, never said a word.

And when they finally turned to Sigurd, he said, “Why are you looking at me? I left them on that cabin.”

“True,” Hvitserk affirmed. And then he looked to his older brothers and asked, “Why are you asking as if it were something important?”

Bjorn shrugged though he seemed to try to think of an answer. Ubbe on the other hand looked at the three of them thoughtfully, but just like Bjorn, he didn’t say anything.

After a while, Ivar asked, “I remember drinking something strange. What was that again?”

Ubbe opened his lips to answer but Hvitserk immediately said, “It was a sleeping draft. You drank two cups, that’s why it was afternoon when you woke up.”

Their youngest brother chuckled to that and said, “I was very hungry that day.”

Sigurd laughed mockingly to that and then said, “What? Do you expect me to apologize? I won’t. You drank it yourself.”

Ivar nodded. “You’re right.” Then he gazed at his fourth brother for a while and said, “I’m glad that you were born my brother, Sigurd, I really am. If you were my enemy, you’d be a formidable one. But because of our blood relation, you automatically became my ally. For this blessing, I thank the Gods.”

Sigurd only smiled to that, the same sour smile he always had, and raised his golden cup, “Skol.”

“Skol,” Ivar responded with a gentle smile, raising his own goblet.

Hvitserk tried to smile as well but failed, and when he looked at Sigurd, there was something else in his eyes. The secrets therein were full of words that couldn’t be said, and so, he cast his eyes down once more and kept eating. Their older brothers saw his demeanor but none said anything about it anymore.

After their repast, they sat together on the great hall and discussed their plans for the future, which nations to raid, which kingdoms to annex. They exchanged intelligence on various realms and relayed crucial information on several trading routes.

“I’m really worried about father,” Ivar said afterwards. “Which English kingdom did he say he was sailing to?”

Sigurd replied, “Northumbria. He brought only two ships, not even longships but just knarrs, because some of our warriors are already there.”

And when his brothers looked to him questioningly, Sigurd told them,

“Father is working for the Northumbrian ruler King Osberht. Our warriors have been there for quite a while, serving as mercenaries. They are fighting against Osbehrt’s rival, the land’s other king named Aelle. It’s a very complicated thing, their quarrel.”

His brothers were silent. Clearly, the goings-on of their home kingdom had slipped from their minds, and it is only now that they seemed to appreciate how Denmark had changed since they left, how their father’s affairs had been vastly different from what was before.

“Anyhow,” Sigurd continued, “Osberht paid in gold and silver, some of which are already here. But father still needs to collect the other half of the payment, hence, he sailed.”

Ivar nodded, still worried, and said, “Do you have a spy network over there?”

To that Sigurd answered, “Yes, but none of them have yet returned.” And he asked, “What concerns you so?”

Ivar breathed deeply and said, “If mother warned him not to go, father shouldn’t have sailed. She reads the omens very accurately. He should have heeded her words.”

“True,” Hvitserk affirmed. “Mother’s predictions have never been wrong. Not even once.”

A deep silence briefly reigned over the five of them. And then Ubbe spoke, “Whatever happens, we shall accept it for it is the will of the Gods.”

Bjorn nodded but said, “Let us wait for further news.”

As they sat there together, a warm summer rain fell gently upon the land, beautifully concealing the terrible occurrence that was about to come.

_-_

_tbc_


	6. Chapter 6

Three days before King Ragnar’s sons sailed, their father’s faithful bodyguard and his company of warriors returned. Their leader looked tired but without any sort of injury upon his person.

However, whatever damage that could not be seen from his body was apparent in his eyes. For he grieved without tears and without a sound, and he beheld everyone who looked upon him with a silent but urgent call for justice. Thus, before the great hall he stood, strong and tall, shaken but unbroken. With his one hand he carried a torn piece of Ragnar’s famed lothbrok and on the other he held the king’s bloodied banner.

Queen Aslaug sat on her throne and on her husband’s seat was her third son, Sigurd with the snake in his eye, absently fingering the armrest. Around them were the rest of the king’s sons seated in no particular order. On one side, Bjorn Jarnsida and Halfdan Hvitserk were absorbed in a game of tafl. On the other side was Ubbe drinking wine from his golden cup, and beside him was Ivar Beinlausi carving a wooden image of Mimir’s head.

The days afore were filled with foreboding, the waiting almost unbearable. And so, when the news was finally on their doorstep, they ceased with their activities and turned to their brother who sat upon their father’s throne. Sigurd understood what they meant, and so, he raised his hand and gestured the warriors’ leader to speak. And the king’s guard announced,

“The king is dead.”

When she heard those words, the queen wept soundlessly. Her tears fell and yet not a whimper escaped from her lips for she had covered her mouth with her hands. None of the king’s sons seemed surprised for they already knew of Aslaug’s prophecy. Nevertheless, Ubbe closed his eyes in grief, Sigurd’s hands clenched on the armrest, and Bjorn had crushed one of the tafl pieces so hard that his fingers bled at the intensity of it. Hvitserk’s eyebrows knitted for a while then he turned to Ivar who paused for a moment and then asked,

“How did my father die?”

And the warrior replied, “He was killed by King Aelle. It was a most horrible death for he was thrown into a pit of snakes and savagely bitten by the vile creatures until he died.”

Upon hearing that, Ubbe sighed deeply and Hvitserk tried to speak but was unable to. A tear escaped from Bjorn’s eye, something he hastily wiped but could not eradicate for more tears started to fall down his cheeks. Sigurd on the other hand was overcome with rage and said, “Then we shall give Aelle a death ten times worse!”

His brothers affirmed that, and yet their youngest only nodded and turned to the king’s guard once more. And Ivar gently said unto him, “White Hair, I know that you are my father’s most trusted man. I also know that speaking of the details of my father’s demise saddens you deeply. But pray tell everything that happened for it is our right to know.”

And so, swallowing his grief, the warrior nodded and he began,

“Your brother Prince Sigurd may have already told you that the queen forbade your father to go for the omens were inauspicious. And yet the king insisted that he must sail, and so, your mother prepared his clothes and weapons and infused enchantments onto them. When we sailed, the queen’s prophecy was fulfilled for a storm came upon us and wrecked our vessels. We were able to swim ashore and no one was drowned. But unbeknownst to us, Aelle was there with his archers at the ready. And so, all warriors were killed except for me and King Ragnar.”

“Aelle was very elated upon your father’s capture,” White Hair continued, “and he had the king and me tied onto a horse and dragged around. During the night, the Saxons put us in chains. And then the king whispered unto me, ‘Break the bones on your hand, my man, so that you may escape and tell my sons of my fate.’ The king said this for only my hands were chained but the rest were free, unlike him who was chained on his neck, hands and feet.”

Queen Aslaug sobbed to that, her voice only muffled by her handkerchief. Ivar only nodded, encouraging the warrior to continue. The king’s guard braved on and yet his voice started to break,

“And I told him, ‘How could I abandon my king at this dire moment? Dying beside my king is the greatest honor I could ever have.’ But the king said, ‘My time has come but yours is just beginning. Go now and obey for this is my last command to you.’ And so, I did as my king told me to do and when I was able to escape, I put my bones back together again. But I waited on the darkness for there might be a chance for me to spirit my king away.”

White Hair paused for a while, mayhap trying to calm himself, and then he continued,

“However, the Saxons noticed my disappearance and they alerted their king. Aelle was very angry and personally beheaded some of his warriors. Then he increased the number of guards and I was no longer able to get as close as was needed to save my king. But I saw with my own eyes how they put the king into an iron cage and wounded him with their spears. And then they put him out again to be beaten. Aelle himself branded King Ragnar with a hot iron on his forehead and sliced his face with a knife.

“And yet, my king never faltered and he said unto them, ‘It gladdens me to know that Odin prepares for a feast. Soon I shall be drinking ale from curved horns. This hero that comes into Valhalla does not lament his death. I shall not enter Odin’s hall with fear. There I shall wait for my sons to join me. And when they do, I will bask in their tales of triumph. The Aesir will welcome me! My death comes without apology. And I welcome the valkyries to summon me home!’ 

“When he heard that, Aelle was greatly angered, for my king spoke in the Saxon tongue so that they may understand. And so, Aelle had his warriors open the pit he had prepared and threw many snakes into it. Some of his own warriors were bitten and died of the venom. But the Saxon king’s command must be followed and so they obeyed. Then they opened the iron cage and my king fell onto the pit. I heard how his bones broke, for the pit must have been very deep.”

As they listened to the warrior’s words, Sigurd looked to his younger brother, quite astonished at the degree of his self-control. For everyone was either enraged or muted with grief but Ivar remained calm and he hearkened to the White Hair’s account with an unreadable countenance. Indeed, his face was very blank and the only thing indicating his grief or anger was the very tight grip he had on his knife.

“Aelle was greatly happy and his men roared in mirth,” the king’s guard continued. “But a strange thing happened – one of Aelle’s warriors noticed that the snakes dared not get close to King Ragnar. The Saxons greatly feared that it must be the doings of the Gods. And one of Aelle’s warriors told him of my king’s enchanted lothbrok, for it is well-known far and wide that the strong magic upon my king’s hairy breeches rendered him feared even by the foulest of beasts.

“Upon hearing such words, Aelle declared, ‘This is not the doing of God but of Satan himself!’ Whatever that Satan was, I did not understand. But the Saxon king commanded his men to pull up my king once again, and then they sliced off his lothbrok and threw it away, and so, I was able to pick it up.”

And White Hair showed them the torn portion of Ragnar’s hairy breeches which the queen took in her hands and kissed as she cried her heart out. Ivar nodded and bid the man to continue, and the warrior spoke once again,

“The Saxons were about to drop him back into the pit but Aelle said, ‘Remove all his garments for his breeches may not be the only items upon his person that is enchanted.’ And so, his warriors obeyed and stripped my king of all his clothing.”

White Hair paused momentarily, to wipe the tears from his eyes, then he spoke once more,

“As he was abused by their heavy hands, my king said, ‘Oh, how the little piggies would grunt if they heard how the old boar suffers.’ But Aelle heeded not his words and commanded his men to drop my king back into the pit. And all of a sudden, King Ragnar raised his eyes onto me and he smiled.”

At that moment, White Hair paused once again to calm himself down. When he deemed himself suitable to speak once more, he said, “And so, my king was dropped once more onto the pit. The Saxons cheered loudly, and in my heart, I knew that my king has entered Valhalla.”

Sigurd’s eyes were red with tears but there was no shame in it for all his brothers had the same countenance as he. And yet, Ivar remained calm and told the king’s guard, “My father had suffered greatly and so have you. But how were you able to sail back home?”

And White Hair answered, “I ran away and went into King Osbehrt’s camp and found our warriors still there, being slaughtered by the Saxons. For they had betrayed us and refused to pay the gold they had promised.”

Upon hearing those words, Ivar smiled bitterly and Sigurd understood the reason. For the Saxons were just like Irish – they only used the Danes and the Norse, even the Swedes and the Norse-Gaels, for their own benefit. And after they were done, they would discard them like broken swords that served their purpose no longer.

“Some of them were able to escape and led me to their boats,” White Hair continued. “But when we reached the river, we found that the longships were burned. And then, some of Prince Sigurd’s spies came to us and led us to a secret cave. They gave us clothes of Saxon peasants and bid us wear it over our chainmail. And then, one small group after another, we were able to get onto Saxon boats to Ireland. In Limerick, we were given horses by a Norwegian earl allied to your brother King Olaf. Finally, we reached Dublin where we ate and drank and tended to our wounds. And thus, finally, we were able to sail home.”

“And how many warriors were able to come back?” Ivar asked.

White Hair answered, “Of the three hundred mercenaries, ninety eight survived. Most of them stayed in Dublin and only twenty came home with me.”

To that Ivar nodded and said, “You have done your duty. Your body is tired of the long journey and your heart is still suffering immense grief for your king. And so, you must rest, White Hair. Worry not, for we will kill Aelle and that traitor Osbehrt. Console yourself with the thought of their imminent deaths.”

And White Hair nodded to that with the hard conviction on his face. Then to Sigurd’s great surprise, the warrior knelt down, took Ivar’s hand and kissed it, and then said, “I will fight alongside you and your warriors, _my_ king. And I vow that I shall follow your command until we smite down those beasts. And if I live after that, I promise that I shall serve you until the day I die.”

Ivar lightly smiled in acceptance and said, “May the Gods bless you.” Then he gestured to the waiting servants to take care of the warrior and the rest of his band. And he turned to Sigurd and said, “Brother, you are King of Denmark now.”

When he heard those words, Sigurd’s heart started to beat faster, his grief now mingled with a slight dread. He had been acting-king for quite a while, but to truly become a king was something he still did not expect. For all his experience, he still found himself unworthy to fill in his father’s great role. But in the wake of this tragedy, there was no time for deep thinking. For there was an immediate call of duty that he and his brothers must fulfill – they must kill the Northumbrian kings and sacrifice their blood to the Gods and thus avenge their father’s death.

-

On their shared capital at York, two rival Saxon kings convened, mayhap to make peace but more so to discuss urgent matters at hand. Under the same English sky, they slowly rode their horses side by side. Still, even with the temporary peace, their warriors were positioned on a safe distance, spears, swords and longbows at the ready.

King Osbehrt glared at King Aelle who pretended to ignore the grim look upon the other king’s face. But he knew that there was nothing that could be done for the deed was already accomplished. Still he told his rival, “I have always thought you a boorish man but with a ruler’s intellect nonetheless. But I’m afraid that I may have overestimated you. For your extremely idiotic actions spelled a certain doom for the both of us, not just you.”

The other Northumbrian king nodded to that, quite insulted but with enough sense to accept the harsh words from his rival’s lips, for he knew it to be true. And King Aelle spoke, “You and I were at war and he was your mercenary. What else did you expect me to do? Kiss him? No, of course I’d kill him. It is standard practice to torture the enemy before executing them, and so I did.”

There was nothing King Osbehrt could do but shudder, for Aelle’s words were also true. And he said, “Very well, your words do make sense. And yet you must also accept the truth that King Ragnar’s sons will seek vengeance upon us.”

“Sigurd Snake-in-the-Eye,” King Aelle muttered nervously. He tried to lessen his anxiety by projecting a strong pose upon his person and by saying, “That young man will be no match for us if we unite our forces.”

To that, King Osbehrt frowned and angrily said, “Has your head shrunk along with your cock? Sigurd is not the only threat. King Ragnar has many sons and I do not know them all. I have only met Sigurd as have you, and you know very well how formidable he is. And may I inform you that he was no mere warrior but an extremely strategic man. I may have killed most of their mercenaries but I still haven’t found the headquarters of Sigurd’s spies.”

Upon hearing that, King Aelle smiled sheepishly as if to diffuse his guilt, but his fear was now very apparent. King Osbehrt continued, “I don’t even know if there are some of his men watching us right now. God help us! These pagans have no respect for our heritage and will pillage and ransack us. And it is all your fault.”

King Aelle looked at the distance and chuckled resignedly. “Indeed they will and I accept my mistake. And yet, you do realize that these pagans were the same as what we once were a long time ago, no? When did we become as we are now?”

And he sighed deeply and looked unto his rival for a long time. And King Aelle spoke once more,

“Long ago, we worshipped Woden, Thor, Frigg, and Tiw. But for some reason, we abandoned our true heritage and became like this – pathetic people so afraid of eternal damnation that we would give all our gold to the Church. And yet you know as well as I do that the words of the Church were just that, words. Everything written on that Holy Book might be just invented stories for all we know.”

“How can you utter such blasphemies?” King Osbehrt said, and yet his face indicated the opposite. For he himself was guilty of those very same thoughts. “Anyway, we will all die if we are caught unprepared. No matter your personal feelings or mine, to those Danes, we remain their Christian enemies and thus, they will show us no mercy. We have no other choice now but to do as you have said: we must unite our forces to meet them in battle.”

King Aelle nodded to that and said, “True. But do you have enough gold to pay your soldiers?”

King Osbehrt shrugged and said, “Well, I did manage to get back half of the Danegeld I promised King Ragnar. But I reckon it is not enough, as is yours. What are we to do?”

And King Aelle lightly grinned to that and answered, “We do what we always do. Those churches have overflowing gold lying useless on the vaults. Before the Danes pillage it, we must pillage it first.”

His rival king smiled in approval, looked upon Aelle quite fondly, and said, “You know, dear brother, if you weren’t so obnoxious most of the time, we do actually get along.”

And so, it came to pass that the two Northumbrian kings ransacked their own churches for the gold, silver, and other treasures therein. Apart from that, they also appropriated the churchlands for their own benefit.

But that was no barbaric invasion and ransacking for it was done with the consent of the bishop himself.

It was true that the old bishop had no choice on the matter for there was a sharp sword aimed upon his neck. But once he gave his word, the looting was made legal, justly and peaceably performed, and blessed by the divine hand of God.

When they sacked the churches, the kings did not take away the golden chalices and crucifixes and other holy items, only the coins offered at the altar boxes and some gems on the reliquaries. They respected the remains of the saints, attended Mass, and took the Holy Communion. And so, despite their blatant transgressions upon the property of the Church, most of the priests and the people did not deem them sinful.

By doing thus, Aelle and Osbehrt were able to prepare their armies’ payments and organize the peasant militias into formidable warriors. They enjoined the blacksmiths to make more armors and blades and ordered the woodcarvers to make more spears, shields, and wagons. By a mere few months, their ordnances were ready and their warriors fully equipped to battle any incoming foe. They guarded the waterways very closely for those were their enemy’s main points of entry.

True enough, a mere two weeks after everything was made battle-ready, King Osbehrt received news of an incoming army. And yet, it was an army greater than anything the Anglo-Saxon world had ever seen before. As expected, there were Danes, Norwegians, Swedes, and Norse-Gaels. But what was baffling was the fleet of Frisians and Franks, some of them led by dukes and Christian princes. 

King Aelle closed his eyes and sighed deeply, and he said, “Perhaps, this is the end of us, dear Osbehrt. We must say our prayers and ready ourselves for our inevitable deaths. I hope I would be able to bear the pain with honor.”

“Nonsense!” King Osbehrt exclaimed. “Be gone with thee, Satan! For thy word is but the word of one who has lost all hope. We will fight to the death if necessary but I believe we can survive this yet. And besides, we have our own great army. Save for the women, children, the old, and the very infirm, all of our people are already armed to the teeth and ready for combat.”

And when he saw that his former rival and now ally was no longer as disheartened, King Osbehrt continued, “Fear not, my brother. For thy fear will neither defend our people nor win us this battle. Harden your heart, sharpen your mind, renew your soul, and invigorate your spirit. Ready yourself for the worst but hope for the best.”

Hearing that, King Aelle breathed out his misgivings and straightened his back. And so, the two kings of Northumbria bade their households goodbye, mounted their horses. And together with the bishop, their honor guards, and the rest of the warriors, they rode onwards to face the terrible foe.

Within the castle’s heavy doors, King Aelle’s queen knelt before the altar, made the sign of the cross and whispered a heartfelt supplication, “From the fury of the Northmen, defend us, O Lord.”

Princess Blaeja knelt beside her mother and also made the sign of the cross, her hand daintily holding a large golden pendant hanging from her necklace. From afar, it looked like the Christian cross. But upon closer inspection, there was no Christ therein, for it was a different cross, an emblem of an Old God disavowed by her people and yet secretly revered by her beloved father and tolerated by her mother.

And in a very small voice, the princess uttered,

“Today is your day, O Tiw, Lord God Almighty, Son of the Father Woden, you from whose powerful lordship safeguarded everything that is wise, holy and just. Protect my father from harm, I implore thee. Defend our people from our foes. Make strong our swords, our spears and our arrows. Make formidable our hearts.

“Fight with us, O Great Commander. Make us your victorious army in this battle. By your mighty sword, strike fear upon the hearts of our enemies. Lend us your strength so that we may fight for your glory and for the honor of your Father Woden. But in all things, whether it be here on earth as it is upon your heavenly home, thy will be done.”

Upon the ending of her daughter’s prayer, the queen said, “Amen.”

-

They had barely entered the river system and yet their longships were already rained with a terrible onslaught of arrows. As Sigurd braced himself on the hastily-formed shield wall, he heard Ivar shout the command of retreat upon his warriors. Hvitserk repeated the order and so did the rest, thus, Sigurd had no choice but to do the same, unless he wanted his warriors to bear the fate of slaughtered cattle.

As they reversed the direction of their oars, a spear was hurled towards Sigurd. As precise as he always was, he caught it with his bare hands. He was supposed to be retreating, and yet, he could not help but rage in frustration. And so, he screamed in his anger and flung the spear as far as he could in no particular direction.

To his own surprise, it hit someone standing upon the overlooking cliff, nay, not a man but a horse belonging to King Aelle himself. The Northumbrian king fell off of his mount, but to Sigurd’s chagrin, he managed to get up without sustaining injury. And to their greatest horror, the skies suddenly darkened, thunder roared, and lightning sparked atop the skies.

It was a most amazing thing, for despite the terrible mayhem upon the heavens, the sun shone brightly upon the Saxons, like a golden disk proud and victorious amid the slightly greyed clouds. And as the Northumbrians flaunted their banners and shouted a cry of victory, Sigurd swore that he felt an intense chill running down his spine. And he wasn’t the only one that seemed to have felt it, for the men of the Great Army beheld their enemy with an unexplainable awe.

By thus, the Vikingrs and their leaders did not succumb to their rage and followed Ivar’s sensible command. For they knew that if they pressed on, their numbers would be greatly diminished. The foe was well-prepared and well-equipped, and perhaps had divine mandate on their side.

When they had fully retreated to their hidden outpost in East Anglia, they made camp and rested still baffled by such an astonishing occurrence. Even the ever-calm Ubbe seemed perplexed. When he removed his helmet, he thought deeply for a while and then asked, “What day is it today?”

Guthrum, Bjorn’s son by his first wife, answered his uncle’s query, “Tuesday.”

Ubbe nodded and uttered, “Tyr’s (Tiw’s) day.” Then he paused once again and asked, “Sigurd, are you sure those Saxons are Christians?”

“Yes, I’m very sure that they are,” Sigurd replied. “They have Christian temples and prayed to their one God who was nailed on a torture cross. There is no doubt that they are fully Christian. Why do you ask?”

Ubbe paused for a while and quietly mumbled, “A cross.”

To that, Bjorn fiddled his hammer and said, “So, a cross like Tyr’s?”

“No!” Sigurd impatiently exclaimed. “Their cross is the one with the Christ God in it.”

A deep silence fell upon all five brothers, for they were mystified at the occurrence. Perhaps the Christian God was actually Tyr in disguise, for why else would the enemy bear the same battle-hardiness otherwise?

As they pondered about the matter, Ivar glanced subtly upon their warriors. Sigurd surmised that Ivar had noticed the defeat upon some of the men’s faces. Sigurd racked his head for a solution to stop the disenchantment now spreading throughout the camp, but he could find none.

In Sigurd’s mind, he had accepted their defeat for Tyr was one of the mightiest Gods. To have such powerful Deity ally with the enemy spelled a certain disaster for the Vikingrs. Indeed, it was very difficult to find a way out of it.

Mayhap to break the silence, Ivar called upon his sons and said, “Bring me the image of Mimir, set it on a table, and get a candle.”

Bardr, the eldest of the three, took the holy image from its wrappings while Sigfrid set up a makeshift altar. When everything was ready, Sigtrygg gave his father a candle and firestones. For a moment, Sigurd marvelled at how fast Ivar’s sons had grown, how they have become so tall and sturdy that Ivar looked almost like their brother, not their father. And how Sigurd envied the sight, for out of all his brothers, he was the only one who had not yet begotten a child.

Ivar lighted the candle and set it in front of the God’s decapitated head, then he closed his eyes and uttered,

“O Mimir, Great Rememberer, Fount of all Knowledge, you who kept the second holy well of Yggdrasil, you who bore the great mountains of Kjolen upon your shoulders, you to whom the Allfather himself sacrificed his own eye in his quest for wisdom, Giver of Divine Gifts, Lord of all Prophecy, Wisest of all Gods, hearken to my plea.”

Upon hearing that, the Vikingrs started to gather around. Sigurd noticed that their weary faces have been slightly rejuvenated, for hearing one of their kings call upon the Gods was a powerful thing indeed.

Hvitserk came to his brother’s side, faced the altar, and raised his hands in supplication. To show their solidarity, Ubbe and Bjorn also came, and so, Sigurd did the same, as well as Guthrum and Ivar’s sons. Upon seeing their kings and lords unified in prayer, the warriors did the same thing.

Perhaps it was coincidence, perhaps a divine intervention, nobody could truly tell, but the dark clouds started to clear. The sun still shone but it had a gentler light than before, its warmth as comforting as the sight of the one tiny candle upon the altar.

And Ivar continued,

“O Great Wise One, reveal unto us the way into our enemy’s domains so that we may fulfill our sacred vengeance. And in return for bestowing your favor upon your humble servant, I give to you my blood and offer you my eyes as long as you wish to use them. For in so doing, I shall be the window from which you may behold Midgard once more as you float within your lonely abode.”

Then Ivar opened his eyes, took the knife that had always been his companion since childhood, cut his palm with it, and allowed his blood to fall on Mimir’s wooden replica. Accidentally, a drop fell onto the lighted candle and its fire was extinguished. At that very same moment, Ivar’s brows knotted for a while. When he raised his eyes, those who were near enough saw that the king’s eyes had changed. For the whites of Ivar’s eyes had become very blue indeed.

Sigurd shuddered, understanding the sacrifice his younger brother just did. For it is known that Mimir’s worshippers must offer a great price in exchange for his favors. Now, Ivar would once again feel the pain of his old illness, for those blue eyes were a sign that he was about to break a bone.

Ivar didn’t seem to mind his suffering for his face remained neutral, wordlessly enduring everything. He merely called upon his men, saying, “Scout Regiment, come forward.”

The regiment obeyed, fifty warriors strong and led by their commander Vigrid. And Ivar said unto them, “Observe the land but only as far as you can go. Climb the trees if necessary so you may see everything from above. See how the enemy’s formations are done and see why none of Sigurd’s spies have returned.”

To that, Vigrid said, “It shall be done as you wish, my king, but I have something to ask.”

“Speak, I am listening.”

“We heard of White Hair’s account of how he went with King Sigurd’s spies,” said Vigrid. “Perhaps he should join us, for he may well know of various landmarks that would help us navigate the right course.”

Ivar smiled to that, pleased, and said, “Good thinking, my man. Your request is granted.”

And when he turned to White Hair, King Ragnar’s former bodyguard immediately bowed in acquiescence. And Ivar told the regiment, “Go now and may the Gods be with you.”

When the scouts had disappeared into the surrounding woods, Ivar called upon members of the Healers' and Ordnance's Troops and they came forward. And he asked, “Healers, are your medical supplies adequate for at least five thousand people?”

The healers looked upon one another and their leader said, “No, my king. Our supplies are only for the troops under your kingship.”

Ivar nodded, turned to the other troop, and said, “Recount our food provisions, our weapons, our armors, other supplies, and our horses. I need ten of you to coordinate with the healers, see if you can help them increase their supplies to accommodate my brothers’ troops as well. For everyone of us must be able to last long in these excursions.”

And then he called upon the three generals of his main troops, each of whom led three hundred men. And Ivar said, “Recount your men and see if anyone is missing. For we need a full accounting of what we have against our enemy. When the scouts return, further orders will be issued. We must wait and see, for this is the will of the Gods.”

When their youngest brother was done consorting with his warriors, Sigurd appreciated how unique Ivar’s troops were. For there were no earls under his command, only warriors fully devoted to him. This was in contrast to Hvitserk whose easy-going nature attracted many earls, both Danes and Norwegians alike. To an outsider’s eyes, Ivar and Hvitserk should be at odds politically. But Sigurd was an insider and knew that there was no true competition between them, for his brothers truly and definitely loved each other.

Sigurd thought of the two of them as something akin to the parts of a flower, different but fully united. Ivar’s centralized command resembled the core containing the sweet essence and Hvitserk’s decentralized governance resembled the mass of delightful petals surrounding it. And despite his bitterness at being excluded from it, Sigurd found their togetherness very beautiful indeed.

When Ivar turned to his older brothers, he said, “Aelle and Osbehrt are strong opponents, we cannot underestimate them. Do you have any further ideas? Plans on how we should handle them?”

Sigurd sighed deeply and said, “I well know the lay of the land, the names of the lords under Aelle and those under Osbehrt. From what I saw earlier, it seems that their armies have combined. Aelle has formidable melee warriors but Osbehrt had more efficient archers. Their longbows have a very far range so I advise we steer clear out of those.”

And Ubbe looked upon the surroundings thoughtfully and asked, “Are their cities walled? Like those of the Franks?”

“Yes,” Sigurd answered, “but not as formidable. For most of these English realms have only wooden walls, structures than can be easily burnt. But in York, there is a very old stone wall and I heard that it was built by the Romans a long time ago. It is already falling apart, but even so, we still need to steer clear out of it for the other sides could be manned with archers.”

Upon hearing that, Bjorn nodded somewhat defeated and then carefully said, “I see now that we have been overcome by rage. This battle cannot be won by sheer numbers alone.”

Everyone affirmed him. Then Ivar said, “That’s why we need to think of better tactics. We have to, for how else can we avenge our father?”

Their eldest brother smiled to that, his confidence restored.

As they dispersed into their respective tents, Sigurd noted how quiet Hvitserk had been, far too different from his usual cheerful self. When he thought about it, since that fateful night, their third brother had been very pensive. Perhaps he harboured pity for Sigurd? Or perhaps he felt guilt for allowing Sigurd to bed Ivar that night?

When Sigurd looked at his older brother’s forlorn countenance, he couldn’t help but regret his actions. Yes, it satisfied his body greatly and then shattered his heart in such a way that he vowed that he would never love again. Those were good things, for firstly, he finally knew how sweet it was to bed his younger brother, and secondly, he was forced to finally move on from his fucking unrequited love.

But now, he felt sorry for Hvitserk, felt very regretful for taking advantage of the moment. Granted, it was Hvitserk’s own stupidity that caused everything to spiral into that…well, very sweet night. Still, Sigurd felt sorry.

And so, as Hvitserk walked away, Sigurd secretly followed him. Into the woods, he followed him.

But all of a sudden, Hvitserk disappeared. And before he could even react, Sigurd felt an axe’s blade on his throat and his older brother’s warm breath on the back of his neck.

And Hvitserk whispered, “Why are you following me? What do you want?”

_-_

_tbc_


	7. Chapter 7

Sigurd felt the axe’s blade digging into his skin and yet he was not wounded. For Hvitserk, despite his annoyance, was careful not to injure his younger brother. And so, Sigurd raised his hands in surrender and said, “Forgive me for following you, brother.”

Hvitserk released him and Sigurd turned to face his brother. And when he saw that his older brother's expression reverted back to its unusually cold yet forlorn countenance, Sigurd couldn’t help but be honest towards him, and so he said, “That night…”

And when his older brother’s grip on his axe tightened, Sigurd had to brace himself for Hvitserk looked very uncomfortable with what those words implied. Still, he pressed on, “I just want to tell you that I was very baffled by your actions that night. You have all the power to forbid me from laying with him, and yet you didn’t. I can’t fathom any reason other than idiocy on your part. But somehow, I cannot fully believe that.”

His older brother chuckled bitterly at that and said, “What’s the matter with that? I admit that I’m an idiot.”

“Stop playing games with me,” Sigurd said, his anger now slightly rising. “I’m not in the mood.”

“You were in the mood that night,” Hvitserk said with a grin, his mood now lightened. And yet, there was something in his eyes that Sigurd could not fully understand. Then Hvitserk sighed and turned his eyes towards nothing in particular and he said, “In all seriousness though, I’d like to thank you. I love Ivar, I truly do. And yet through the years we have been together, I had not fully believed that the feeling was the same for him.”

Hearing that, Sigurd was greatly surprised. And he clenched his fists angrily, for how could Hvitserk say such things? And he told his older brother the obvious, “He wept for you when you almost died. He lost sleep for many nights because he took care of you. He massacred and subjugated the Irish as a revenge for the injuries they inflicted upon you. He never tried to wrangle your warriors away from you when he had all the opportunity to do so. Or have you failed to see that?”

To his greatest surprise, Hvitserk laughed at his words and said, “Do you even know him? Our brother is the most cunning man in the world. He can speak the gentlest of words to someone and then skin the person alive the very next moment. He allows me to bed him because he needs my army – we’re the fodder on the battlefield, my warriors and I. He needs me to even out the power between him and Olaf, for my earls are loyal to neither of them. So if I die, will he not be at a disadvantage?”

Sigurd swallowed hard, his fists unclenching. He had always known that Hvitserk’s greatest strength was not his abilities on the battlefield but his skill to discern a person’s real motives. And his older brother had succeeded in hiding his true talent by acting foolishly most of the time, thus, making everyone forget the true essence of his personality.

When he brought his eyes back to his younger brother, Hvitserk saw the expression on Sigurd’s face, and he smiled. Then he said unto him, “But you know what? I accept that fate with all my heart because I truly love him. I’ll give my life for him if need be, I’m prepared to die for his sake. Even if he decides to kill me right now, I’ll accept it and give him the knife. I’ll kill myself if he asked me to.”

Then Hvitserk paused for a while and then said, “And yet, somehow, I wanted to know what he really feels deep within. I wanted to see what is in his heart, if there was true affection there. It doesn’t matter if he cannot love me the way I love him. Just a tiny bit of his love would make me very happy, I’m a simple man like that.”

Hvitserk laughed lightly, but Sigurd could hear the slight desperation therein. He understood that feeling quite well, and he realized that despite the great differences they had on the way they handled things, he and his older brother were very similar in some respects.

“But thanks to you,” Hvitserk continued, “I did my test, and confirmed it. You pleasured him and yet all he saw was me. And so, I believe now that he truly had no eyes for any other man but me. Most importantly, I noticed that he preferred to caress my scarred body over your beautiful, unblemished skin. That only means that he would favor me over anyone else even if my good looks fade away.”

Sigurd knew that his brother was telling the truth, and that truth pierced Sigurd’s heart very painfully. For despite his efforts to kill his feelings for his younger brother, he was not even halfway there and his love was still very much alive. And so, he angrily retorted, “Well, he could have thought that you were testing him, and thus, was deceiving you all along.”

To that, Hvitserk laughed, but his voice was no longer forlorn. Then he pointed to his own head and said, “No wise man could ever successfully lie when his intellect is compromised.”

And when he winked at his younger brother, Sigurd scowled angrily, for he knew Hvitserk’s words to be true. But when he looked upon Sigurd once more, there was the sadness in Hvitserk’s eyes once again. Sigurd did not know what to make of it, until his older brother said,

“But I never expected that you loved him that much. I thought you just wanted him, desired him. So I thought that our arrangement that night was mutually beneficial for everyone involved – I could do my test, the effects of Ubbe’s potion could be quenched, and you could also satisfy your lust at the same time. It was my folly for never realizing the true extent of your feelings.”

When Hvitserk looked into his eyes, Sigurd felt ashamed, greatly embarrassed that his heart’s content was being scrutinized by someone else. Under Hvitserk’s eyes, he was naked, fully seen for what he truly is. No pretensions of anger could stop his older brother from seeing what he saw, nothing could veil or cover what his eyes perceived, for his eyes were like the eyes of the Allfather himself.

In his heart, Sigurd realized that Ivar and Hvitserk were truly destined for each other, destined to fall in love and have each other’s hearts united forever, just like how Odin’s eye was destined to fall on Mimir’s well and fated to stay there till the end of time.

And yet, as he was being inspected and pitied, Sigurd needed not to be ashamed for there was also compassion in Hvitserk’s eyes, the desire to console his little brother. And as if to confirm that, his older brother said, “You asked for my forgiveness and I forgive you. In return, I would also like to ask for your forgiveness for I used you to fulfill my own scheme. Know this – I didn’t mean to hurt you. You’re my brother too and I love you.”

Sigurd snorted to that and said, “Just not as strongly as you love him.”

“Well, yes,” Hvitserk admitted, “but believe me, I didn’t really mean to make you miserable. I’m sorry.”

Sigurd sighed, but it was a sigh of relief, for his heart’s burden was now fully lifted. And he told Hvitserk, “Well, I love you too, so I forgive you. Besides, you have to realize that it’s not your fault entirely. It was my fault as well. I made him drink that potion, remember?”

To that, Hvitserk laughed, his countenance now truly cheerful once more, and said, “Indeed.” When he looked to Sigurd once again, Hvitserk said, “I know that this advice is unsolicited. But I believe that the way for you to forget him is to have a lover. Or perhaps you ought to get married as soon as possible. It would not shirk you from your duties as a king for it is part of your many obligations.”

And Sigurd smiled to that and replied, “I have forgotten about that. Marriage is not just for love, it’s a duty too. Thank you for reminding me, brother.”

Upon hearing that, Hvitserk’s smile widened and he threw his arm over Sigurd’s shoulders. And as they walked back into the camp, he said, “If you want, I can recommend some good ladies for you. King Olaf has another sister. King Kjetill Flatnose of Mann also has a sister and two unmarried daughters. You can look at the daughters of my earls as well. If you want exotic beauties, there are the daughters of the Irish kings, also the daughters of the Pictish and Brythonic lords, the Swedes, Franks and Frisians. There are so many to choose from.”

Sigurd thought of that for a while, then said, “How about the Saxons?”

And Hvitserk laughed loudly to that and said, “Well, they’re our enemies right now. But perhaps we can ally with one of their kingdoms, then you can marry a princess from there.”

Sigurd nodded to that and said, “Indeed, I shall. When we win this battle, I shall have a bride. I need an heir as soon as possible, for the sight of my brothers’ sons is making me very jealous.”

Hvitserk shrugged to that, “I don’t have sons as well, if you haven’t noticed.”

“But you have five daughters already,” Sigurd told him. “I say that you are very blessed.”

Hvitserk nodded to that, the smile in his face now very radiant, and said, “I thank the Gods.”

Twilight had already fallen when they reached the camp. Upon their arrival, the atmosphere was very tense for half of Ivar’s scouts have already returned, among them were Vigrid and White Hair. And to Sigurd’s greatest wonder, five of his spies were also with them together with a lone Saxon soldier who carried the Northumbrian banner.

Upon seeing him, the spies knelt to their king and their leader uttered, “We failed to do our duty. Please kill us.”

Sigurd raised his hand gesturing his men to stand, and he said unto them, “Tyr was on the enemy’s side, thus, we were defeated. None of it was your fault.”

When he turned to Ivar, his brother understood and gestured his warrior to speak. And Vigrid said,

“When we were scouting, we saw the Northumbrians near the border. We saw some of King Sigurd’s spies with them but they were not harmed. So we decided to deliberately show ourselves, only five of us, so that they may signal whether they were hostile or not. We were not attacked by arrows, so we simply stood there. After a few moments, King Aelle himself rode on the border, released the spies, and instructed this soldier to come to us.”

Then the scout commander turned to Sigurd and said, “And so, here I present the messenger for you, King Sigurd, bearing the words of King Aelle himself.”

And Sigurd said in the Saxon tongue, “Speak.”

Thus, the messenger turned to Sigurd and spoke,

“King Aelle regrets the murder of your father. He wants you to know that his war with his brother Osbehrt clouded his judgment, thus, he did not intentionally kill King Ragnar but was only induced to do so by the circumstances. He also wants to tell you that he is open for negotiations and that he is willing to pay any price you may demand as your father’s wergild, may it be gold, silver, precious stones, land, cattle, and weapons among others.”

Upon hearing those words, Sigurd laughed bitterly and walked towards the messenger who stepped back in fear. The Saxon was right to be afraid, for the towering build of the Danish king was already fearsome, but more terrifying was the angered expression on his face. And Sigurd unsheathed his sword, pointed its edge to the Saxon’s neck and said,

“Tell Aelle this – my father’s life is worth more than gold and silver. The only wergild I demand is his blood and the blood of that traitor Obshert. Nothing can satisfy my anger, tell him that. Not until his blood flows on the ground where my father fell, not until his flesh is consumed by ravens, not until he rots and returns to the mud where he and all Saxons came from.”

And due to his anger, Sigurd spat on the Saxon’s face and pushed him so that the messenger fell onto the ground. His brothers and most of the warriors roared in mirth and said ‘aye’ in affirmation to his actions.

But Ivar sighed, took his own handkerchief and bid Vigrid to give it to the Saxon messenger. The scout commander followed his king’s command, and so, the Saxon soldier looked to the Dublin king with pure gratitude in his eyes. And Ivar said in the Saxon language,

“Tell Alle this – my brother will not negotiate with him, but I will. My name is Ivar, son of Ragnar, and I swear that I will honor any word we agree upon. If he wishes to talk face to face, tell him that I will meet him at sunrise in the Northumbrian border.”

And to that, Sigurd angrily interjected, “How could you say such a thing? How could you even dare to speak with our father’s murderer?”

But Ubbe raised his hand to silence Sigurd and said, “I will hear your reasoning, Ivar.”

To that, Ivar said in the Saxon language so that the messenger would understand, “Our numbers are great but I can see no way that we can win against the Northumbrian kingdom, for they are well positioned and well prepared for battle. If we attack directly, we will greatly diminish our numbers and still gain nothing. So the only option we have is negotiations.”

Bjorn laughed mockingly to that and said, “Is that the new tactic you told us about? To retreat and then beg the enemy for wergild? Tell me, where is your honor, little brother?”

Ivar only sighed and said nothing more. Sigurd saw how their firstborn brother laughed derisively. Ubbe merely looked at their youngest brother thoughtfully and Hvitserk remained silent.

A brief silence lasted between the five of them, broken only when Ivar spoke once again, “Well, if no one else has anything to say, then our talks are over.” And he turned to the Saxon messenger and asked, “What is your name?”

“Eandred,” replied the warrior, his countenance still terrified but greatly relieved that at least one of the Danish leaders displayed a kindly disposition towards him.

“Eandred,” Ivar repeated, and he said, “Tell your king everything that my brothers and I have said. You may go now.”

And he turned to Vigrid and said, “Assign three men to accompany this brave Saxon to the border, see that he safely returns to his king’s realm.”

Vigrid obeyed at once, and so, Aelle’s warrior was escorted back by Ivar’s men much to Sigurd’s immense anger. They waited for a moment, and when the scouts returned, they confirmed Aelle’s incoming meeting with Ivar. Bjorn shook his head angrily and Sigurd fumed in his fury.

But after a while, it dawned on him – every word from his little brother’s lips was deliberate. Even Sigurd’s own anger and Bjorn’s mocking words had been played upon to achieve the desired effect. For Ivar’s true motive was to portray an illusion of division between Ragnar’s sons, thus, induce the Northumbrian kings to underestimate them. For the display of false weakness would create an opening within the Saxon’s ranks.

As if to confirm the idea on Sigurd’s mind, Ivar calmly touched the pendant on his neck, the golden miniature of Mimir’s head. And then he smiled, so sweet and so gentle, for he had accomplished his goal.

Upon seeing that, Sigurd shuddered both in fear and great admiration. He knew that the enemy’s mind was also a battlefield, but Ivar took the game to even greater heights by playing with the minds of his own allies. It was no wonder that Hvitserk had put their youngest brother’s love to the test, for he must have seen Ivar acting this way many times before. And though Sigurd was still envious of his older brother’s position, he realized that Halfdan Hvitserk was walking on the edge of a knife, for his situation was extremely perilous. Such was the price for becoming the lover of a man like Ivar the Boneless.

When Sigurd looked to his brothers, he saw that Bjorn was still shaking his head, his palm raking his face and his forehead. Clearly, their firstborn brother was still under Ivar’s spell and had not realized the scheme already at hand, for he said, “I do not know what you plan to achieve, little brother, but you have just displayed extreme cowardice in front of everyone. You ought to be ashamed of your conduct for the behavior you had shown today is not fit for a king.”

Ivar opened his lips as if to speak and then refrained from doing so, preferring to show respect to their eldest brother.

But Bjorn didn’t understand Ivar’s pretence, and so, he sighed deeply and continued, “Well, I can only hope that the negotiations go well. If you need additional warriors to guard you, I will be happy to provide. That includes horses, food provisions, and medical supplies. But I can give no more, for I disavow this type of tactic and will take no part in this. If you decide to fight on the open field of battle, send word to me and I will come to your aid.”

“Yes, brother,” Ivar answered. And to that, Bjorn looked into his little brother with a disapproving yet loving gaze. Seeing Ivar’s quiet determination, he sighed, kissed his youngest brother’s temple, and went to his own warriors.

Ubbe only smiled meaningfully and said, “Indeed, you ought to be ashamed.” But the way he had spoken was obviously ironic for he had understood Ivar’s intentions, and thus, was merely playing along. And their elder brother said further, “I’ll be waiting for your word tomorrow. Whatever you decide, just send word to me so that I and my warriors may act accordingly.”

And just like Bjorn, he also kissed Ivar’s temple and went his way.

Sigurd could not act the way Bjorn and Ubbe just did. For he well knew that his wretched love was still there, and if he touched his little brother’s skin, his desire might be inflamed once again. There was nothing to be done but to feign anger once more. And so, Sigurd rolled his eyes, sighed, and then said, “Very well, you boneless idiot. I shall take no part in your negotiations for I disavow it. But you may call upon me when you need soldiers.”

To that, Ivar merely smiled and gently said, “Thank you, brother.”

Upon hearing that sweet voice, Sigurd was reminded of Dublin’s great hall, a place wherein he could only look at his little brother but never touch him. Right now he was very near and yet Sigurd prevented himself from coming closer. For if he did so, he would drown in his own feelings and then fall into the horrible abyss of loneliness, a wretched abode that awaited those who did not gain Ivar’s favor.

Truly, Ivar was very much like the God of Wisdom that he worshipped, a solitary being reachable only by those who are willing to sacrifice their everything, those who are prepared to endure the pain of his uncertainty, those who find joy upon being played by his brilliant mind.

Sigurd was neither of those. And so, he hardened his heart and touched the pendant on his neck, Tyr’s cross, the sword of the Great Commander whose joys consists only of victories on the battlefield and the devotion of those with an unbendable pride. True enough, Tyr heard his wordless prayer and gave him the strength to turn his eyes away from his brother.

But just as Sigurd was about to walk away, Hvitserk came up to Ivar and said, “It’s getting colder. We must rest and get warm.”

And Ivar replied, “As you wish, brother.”

In the corner of his eye, Sigurd saw how Hvitserk lifted Ivar from his seat and carried him towards the tent they shared. And his heart clenched in pain, his feelings getting the better of him.

Still, there was nothing that that could be done. Hvitserk was merely imitating his patron God, the Allfather. For Odin was not merely a fighter. He was also a seeker of knowledge who was willing to sacrifice everything and anything in pursuit of his goals, willing to destroy himself for the sake of a higher purpose, willing to fight for his dreams, and willing to endure the greatest pains in order to achieve whatever he desired.

And true enough, due to his temperament, Hvitserk was able to possess Ivar’s heart the same way that Odin had taken possession of Mimir’s head.

The night grew deeper and yet Sigurd remained awake for he could not unhear the words Ivar and Hvitserk murmured in the imperfect darkness, nor could he ignore the shuffling of blankets between them. For his tent wasn’t really separate from theirs and their older brothers’. The only boundary therein was a thin curtain haphazardly hung in between their makeshift beds which did very little to cover anything at all.

And so, Sigurd closed his eyes for his jealousy was inflamed upon seeing Hvitserk climb over their little brother’s bed and then slip under his blanket. But even if Sigurd deliberately closed off his sight, his ears were treated with the soft grating of clothes being unlaced, of Hvitserk’s sighs as he settled atop Ivar’s body, of the sound of the kisses they shared.

After a while, Hvitserk probably released his younger brother’s mouth for Sigurd heard Ivar chuckling lightly, perhaps tickled by Hvitserk’s lips and hands moving over his body, and then said, “Stop it, Hvitserk. Our brothers will hear us.”

And Hvitserk whispered, “Then let them hear us. Why would they care anyway?”

Ivar responded with a laugh and then said, “What if the enemy suddenly attacks us, huh? While we are doing this?”

Hvitserk hummed softly to that and answered, “Then we’ll either fight or flee with our breeches open.”

Ivar giggled to that and then he was quiet, for his older brother had silenced him once more with a kiss. And how imperfect that silence was for Sigurd could hear his younger brother’s muffled gasps, the sound of bodies pressed so closely together, their mouths being locked together imprisoning Ivar’s voice therein.

If he only ignored such sounds, Sigurd could have easily fallen into the clutches of slumber. If he only focused on the faint whispers of the leaves being rustled by the wind, the burbling water from the shallow river nearby, the crackling twigs being consumed by the fire, the voices of nocturnal creatures puncturing the quietness of the night.

But alas, the music of his brothers’ lovemaking rang louder to his ears and no power of any God could pull him away from it. Mayhap, it was because no matter how hard he prayed to Tyr, his patron God had no authority over his body’s demands for pleasure was solely Freyr’s domain.

Speaking of Freyr, of the five sons of Ragnar, the only one devoted to the Fertility God was Ubbe, for Bjorn’s worship was reserved for Thor. Perhaps Sigurd should request Ubbe to pray for him next time, and perhaps by doing so, he would finally be freed from this maddening but intoxicating love and lust taking over him each time he heard Ivar’s stifled moans.

In the meantime, there was nothing that Sigurd could possibly do but to touch himself, to drown in those sweet, sweet sounds, to allow himself to be swept by the illusion of partaking in his brothers’ love.

And so, as he lay alone on his bed, he saw in his mind what Hvitserk usually did with their little brother. With the way that Ivar’s voice sounded, right now Hvitserk had released his younger brother’s lips and proceeded to suck on his neck, then further down, further down, until he reached Ivar’s nipple and suckled therein while his fingers played with the other. And mayhap, Hvitserk gave the other nipple the same treatment, for their elder brother was a righteous man like that, concerned with fairness and equality.

Then after a while, Ivar’s voice was muffled once more, his mouth taken once again by his older brother. And yet, despite being forcibly muted by Hvitserk’s invading tongue, Sigurd could hear his little brother’s voice slightly increasing in volume. This time, Hvitserk’s hand was probably playing with Ivar’s sex. And even if Sigurd didn’t really see, he knew how his elder brother usually did such ministrations, how he usually squeezed it, teased the tip by spreading the initial wetness therein.

And then the bed started to creak a little. Sigurd surmised that his brothers’ cocks were already aligned together and moved fluidly between their tightly pressed bodies. As the creaking grew more and more violent, Sigurd bit his lip and speeded up his hands on his own sex. And as he reached his climax, he felt his mind momentarily flying away to whatever realm of the Gods, so greatly fulfilled was his desire.

In a few moments, he returned to Midgard once more. When his breathing was steady, he took his handkerchief at the side and wiped away his release. And as he listened to his brothers on the nearby bed, he noticed that the creaking had stopped, a sign that his brothers had also released. Then there was the sound of a soft cloth being gently wiped over the skin, making Sigurd think that it was over.

But Hvitserk had other things in mind for Sigurd heard the blanket rustle once more. And then Ivar was gasping again, his moans more uncontrollable than before. And even if he wasn’t looking, Sigurd knew of what had just transpired – Hvitserk was playing with their little brother’s sex again, this time not with his hand but with his mouth.

It was that image in his mind that induced Sigurd’s sex to harden again. And he opened his eyes angrily, for his desire to look at his brothers’ affairs overpowered his mind’s warning to stop his foolishness.

And so, he slightly turned to the side and saw Ubbe’s eyes staring back at him. For a moment, he froze, for his brother’s blue eyes twinkled knowingly. But there was no need to be ashamed for Ubbe merely gestured him to cover his now bulging sex. Sigurd swallowed hard, obeyed his older brother’s wordless instructions and looked to the other bed.

Luckily for Sigurd, neither Ivar nor Hvitserk noticed him pleasuring himself for they were busy with their own affairs. And on that matter, Bjorn didn’t notice either for he was deeply asleep, his mouth partially open and lightly snoring.

And so, Sigurd focused once more on his two brothers still drowning in ecstasy. He still did not understand how Hvitserk derived pleasure from suckling on Ivar’s sex but who was he to judge? It wasn’t like he had tasted his little brother. And even if he hadn’t, he had already decided on his mind that Ivar must taste really good.

On his end, Ivar was definitely enjoying his older brother’s mouth enveloping him and his brother’s tongue probably toying with him down there, for he had bitten his lip in intense pleasure. His eyes were tightly closed, his hands caressing Hvitserk’s hair, wordlessly encouraging his brother to keep going, to play with him as much as he desired. And Hvitserk, as always, took pleasure in it as much as he wanted, and then was rewarded by his little brother’s seed erupting in his mouth.

Sigurd felt his own release coming and he shuddered, greatly spent. And at last, due to his own exhaustion, he felt his eyes drooping. The last thing he saw was Ubbe’s lips forming into an amused but affectionate smile, and then Sigurd fell into a deep slumber.

When he awoke, the sun had already risen and Ivar was no longer on his bed. Sigurd looked around and found that he was the only one left on the tent. And so, he speedily dressed himself, angrily muttering words of disdain at his brothers for not waking him up.

Upon walking outside, he saw his brothers already gathered together along with Guthrum and Ivar’s sons. When he inspected them, he noticed that his youngest brother was missing and so he asked, “Where’s Ivar?”

And Bjorn answered, “He already left at first light to meet with Aelle.”

Hearing that, Sigurd glowered at the lot of them and yelled, “And you just let him go?! Alone?”

Their firstborn brother was very much surprised with his tone and said, “Well, isn’t that what we had agreed last night? Who would want to negotiate with those accursed Saxons? Ivar may well try to be diplomatic with those filthy Christians, but I won’t. You said it yourself. How could we even dare to speak with our father’s murderers? That would be the greatest dishonor we could commit against our father’s name.”

Sigurd opened his mouth in aghast. For he had indeed spoken part of those words. But he never expected his brothers to simply let Ivar go without taking measures for their youngest brother’s protection. He turned to Hvitserk and accusingly said unto him, “And what about you? You love him more than anyone, and yet you have not taken measures for our brother’s safety?”

Hvitserk opened his lips for a while, quite surprised with his younger brother’s unusual frankness, and then said, “I know that you care for him, but trust me, our brother is capable of protecting himself. Also, he had taken his most ruthless warriors with him, disguised as ordinary members of his retinue. Do you remember the company of thirty shieldmaidens in his personal guard? They were Ivar’s best torturers and executioners, and right now, they are the ones accompanying him. So fear not, dear Sigurd. Our little brother is in very safe hands.”

Upon hearing such words, Sigurd calmed down a bit. But there was an intensely queasy feeling in his gut urging him to speak once more, and so he said, “What about the rest of the terrain’s defenses? Do we have guards stationed near the border? What if he is double-crossed? What are the measures for counterattack? Are you sure that he could be returned safely?”

When he finished his questions, his brothers were very stunned. For in his great concern for his little brother, Sigurd had completely dropped the façade of disdain he had always displayed and thrown at Ivar’s face. Realizing that, he looked to the ground in utter embarrassment. But in the light of their circumstances, Sigurd regained his bearings once more and looked straight to his brothers’ eyes, demanding for answers.

And so, Ubbe spoke, “We have stationed archers near the border, perhaps not having the same range as Osbehrt’s, but they were atop the trees, thus will have clearer sight than the Northumbrian warriors on the ground. Also, Ivar’s scouts have confirmed that the enemy did not station any of their warriors near the place of treaty. Perhaps Aelle’s desire for negotiations is pure and genuine.”

“Perhaps,” Sigurd breathed out with derision. “Perhaps our brother would survive this, perhaps he would not. You foolish, miserable, irresponsible lot! If you won’t take enough measures for Ivar’s protection, I will!”

And Sigurd roared to his five spies who were standing nearby, “Give me an eyepatch and the standard attire!”

His men immediately scurried to obey. For their king, in his normal demeanor, already looked very intimidating. But his angry self was even more fearsome.

Ubbe and Bjorn remained silent, perhaps trying to ascertain what Sigurd would do next. Hvitserk, on the other hand, sighed and asked, “What are you doing?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Sigurd told him with a glare. “I’m going there with him!”

“And risk you destroying his plan? No, I think not.” And Hvitserk unsheathed his sword and barred Sigurd’s path with it. “If you love him, if you truly love him, you have to trust him. I believe with all my heart that his plan, whatever it is, will work. Just wait and see. Our brother will succeed.”

“But if he doesn’t,” Sigurd said, his voice shaking with determination, “the least that I can do is to die with him.”

Hvitserk seemed taken aback by that, so much so that there were unshed tears forming in his eyes. Still, he did not withdraw his sword.

Sigurd snorted angrily to that but made no move towards his older brother. When the items he had ordered were already present, he wore the disguise and told Hvitserk, “Don’t you worry. I might be hotheaded but I am not a fool. I know how I must act for my goal is the same as yours. You want to protect our brother by staying true to his plan, that is also what I want. All I ask is for you to let me mix with Ivar’s warriors so that I can see the proceedings for myself and protect him with my life if need be.”

After Sigurd had finished putting on his garb, his brothers were very much astonished, for he was unrecognizable, no longer a king but more like a dishevelled old peasant with gray hair and gray beard. The snake in his eye was also covered by the patch, thus, his true identity was concealed. Sigurd merely rolled his eyes, or eye, at the lot of them and asked, “Where’s Vigrid?”

Hvitserk then sheathed his sword, cleared his throat and said, “He already left with our brother, along with ten scouts. But I can send you to them with my own warriors.”

Sigurd was concerned for a while and asked, “Will that not put us afoul with the Northumbrians, and thus, jeopardize the talks? My plan is merely to mix with the scouts on the border.”

Hvitserk smiled at him and said, “If you wish to see how the talks go, you might as well be inside the tent where our brother and Aelle will meet. Besides, as far as our little brother is concerned, you are part of the healers’ troop sent by me to carry his medicine.”

To that, Hvitserk gestured to the two healers and two warriors nearby and bid Sigurd to go with them. “Don’t worry. It is all part of the plan.”

Sigurd scowled to that, greatly embarrassed, for his earlier tirades were not really necessary. He could have just asked Hvitserk nicely. Or perhaps Hvitserk could have just told him the plan, the jerk.

But in the end, it didn’t matter for he accomplished his goal. And as he and his company marched towards the border, Sigurd felt his anxiety dissipating. Perhaps this was fate’s hand guiding him. It didn’t matter if his little brother knew of his feelings or not, for what was important was to protect Ivar and keep him safe.

_-_

_tbc_


	8. Chapter 8

The sun was high atop the heavens, the wind gently rustling the banners, horsehairs and capes of the warriors on both sides of the border. On one side were the Saxons bearing the blessed flag of Northumbria, on the other were the Danes hoisting the raven banners that had stricken immense fear upon the hearts of the English.

However, this day was not a day of battle, at least not the usual battle of swords against axes or of shields against arrows. For today was no ordinary fight – today was the day of a battle being waged without the enemy realizing that it had already begun.

Sigurd remained silent as he marched along with Ivar’s retinue. Nobody recognized him, nor did Hvitserk’s warriors reveal who he really was, for there were more pressing matters at hand.

As he looked discreetly to his brother’s company, it was very telling how weak everybody looked. For Ivar’s thirty shieldmaidens wore women’s dresses over their chainmail, effectively hiding their battle-hardened physique. The three squad leaders on horseback flaunted their long, beautifully braided hair while their twenty seven subordinates who marched on the ground wore white veils over their heads and had aprons over their skirts, a picture of absolute meekness and femininity.

Ivar himself was cloaked with a dark cape, bordered with a thick furry fox-skin and set in place with an emerald brooch, its length hiding the strong armor underneath.

As a counterpart to the women, save for Sigurd and his company of five, there were also thirty male warriors and they too wore soft white linen atop their chainmail, their weapons completely concealed underneath their cloaks save for the shields on their backs. Upon closer inspection, only ten of these men were from the scout regiment, for the rest were Ivar’s most violent berserkers.

Sigurd shuddered lightly at the sight, for he could no longer fathom the plans on his little brother’s mind. And in silence, he chided himself for his lack of faith. Ivar was, for all intents and purposes, very battle-ready, only this readiness was concealed under the façade of weakness and awe-inspiring beauty.

As they approached the Northumbrians, Sigurd saw the surprise on Aelle’s face, for he surmised that the Saxon king did not expect Danes of this caliber. Mayhap, the only Scandinavians they knew were the mercenaries and raiders who looted their villages, burned their homes and churches, ravaged their women, and took their people captive. But this company was a royal one, led by a king in full majestic regalia, followed by a harmless group of women and protected by men armed only with shields.

Vigrid, seemingly unarmed like the rest of the company, walked ahead of his king and in the Saxon tongue spoke, “Hail Aelle! Hail Osbehrt! Honorable kings of Northumbria, peace be upon you, and warm greetings to Your Highnesses and to your people.”

Aelle blinked a bit to regain himself, so taken aback was he by such words. And it was not only he who was in awe, for his own soldiers gawked at the sight so many beautiful women, seemingly out of place in a battlefield or a place of treaty between warring factions. When the Saxon king got over his surprise and nodded in acknowledgment, Vigrid spoke once more,

“Your humble servant presents unto you my King, His Highness, Ivar son of Ragnar, who, as promised, shall discuss the possibilities of a treaty with Your Majesties.”

And when Vigrid stepped aside, Ivar came forward on horseback, his sides flanked by the three squad leaders, hardy shieldmaidens whose battle-worthiness were hidden by their beauty. And when he smiled and slightly bowed to the Saxon kings, Aelle had to blink a few times, for this Danish king had a very tender countenance, with such sweet gentility and refined bearing as he had never seen from a Dane before and not even from a Saxon.

Aelle had to clear his throat for a while but was unable to say anything in response, and so he turned to the other king by his side. Osbehrt seemed to possess more sensibility than his former rival for his countenance was as sharp as a hawk-in-waiting, and he looked upon the women with a suspicious glint in his eye, and then he said,

“We welcome you, Ivar son of Ragnar, and we deeply appreciate your positive response to our plea for peace. I am Osbehrt, son of Aethelred, and this one is my brother Aelle.”

And when Ivar slightly bowed to him in respect, Osbehrt said once more, “Now if you so please,” and he gestured to the open tent at the side and said, “come sit with us so that we may talk amicably and discuss our terms.”

Ivar obeyed and went to the place of agreement with the Saxon rulers. And as the two Northumbrian kings dismounted from their horses and sat, they were very surprised that Ivar could not dismount from his horse by himself. For he was helped out of it by Vigrid and one of the berserkers, and then placed to sit upon the waiting chair.

Upon seeing Osbehrt’s furrowed brows, Ivar said, “Forgive my deficiency, my kings, for I was born with no use of my legs. A defective child like me would have been tossed into the forest at birth. But so great and merciful was my father’s love, for he raised me as a prince despite the shame I brought upon his name.”

Osbehrt only nodded to that, his eyes still suspicious but now slightly relaxed. And Ivar continued,

“You might be asking yourselves why I brought these women along. These three are my wives and the rest are my concubines. I brought them before you so that you may see my honest intentions. For what man would show his women to other men unless he wants to show his vulnerability, and thus, his sincerity?”

On his corner, Sigurd wanted to gape at his brother’s obvious lies. This was beyond his wildest imaginings, and he thought that the Saxons would never buy such pretence. For Ivar only had one wife, an extremely jealous woman who would axe any girl who dared to aspire of becoming her husband’s concubine. But the Northumbrians had no knowledge of those facts, and thus, were completely deceived.

Aelle nodded to Ivar’s words, his smile quite fascinated, while Osbehrt’s brows had completely relaxed. And now that his awed countenance had dissipated, disarmed by his enemy’s show of surrender, Aelle said, “I acknowledge your sincerity, Ivar son of Ragnar.”

And when Osbehrt nodded to that, Aelle continued,

“You have received my message of regret and condolences for your father’s demise, and yet I must apologize to you once more with all my heart. For I truly had no intentions of murder. It was all an accident – we were victims of an unfortunate circumstance, your father and I. If we had met amicably like this, King Ragnar and I would have been good friends. But alas, fate proved herself cruel, for she visited such tragedy upon the both of us.”

Upon hearing that, Ivar merely blinked, his eyes twinkling unfathomably, and he nodded gently and said, “And I accept your heart’s apology. Indeed, we are but poor mortals being toyed by fate’s divine hand.”

Osbehrt nodded to that, but a questioning look in his eyes remained, and then he said, “Now that our hearts have settled over the unfortunate events beyond our mortal control, we must talk of my brother’s offer. For your father was no ordinary man, and so we lend to you our ears for we wish to know the worth you demand for King Ragnar’s wergild.”

And to that, Ivar answered, “As my brother Sigurd had said, and your messenger has probably told you about it, I also believe that my father’s life is worth more than any wergild, be it gold, silver or anything in this mortal realm. For the life of a beloved father has a higher worth than the entire world itself. And so, I shall not ask for a high price, only the land close to the place of his death.”

Hearing that, Osbehrt visibly stiffened a bit, for the place of King Ragnar’s death was very close to the Northumbrian capital of York.

As if to assuage the Saxon king, Ivar said, “But I do not demand a large piece, only a small one. As large as a bull’s hide – that is enough for me. Surely, you will grant such a small piece, a cheap indemnity for my dear father’s demise.”

Osbehrt was taken aback once more and carefully repeated Ivar’s words, “As large as a bull’s hide?” And when Ivar nodded with a slight smile, Osbehrt said once again, “But that would be a very small piece of land, not even enough for your wives and concubines to stand on.”

“Indeed,” Ivar affirmed. “But I care not for its size. I only wish for the bloodshed between us to stop. My brothers want to continue the war but I counselled them to come to their senses. For I believe that there is no way that we can win against your forces. They relented when I told them that I shall try to negotiate for some land. They told me to get that specific land – the place where our father breathed his last, that and only that.”

When Ivar looked into the Saxon kings one after the other, Sigurd saw that both Aelle and Osberht had completely believed his little brother’s words. And Ivar told them, “And so, here I am before your presences, hoping that you would indulge my small request.”

To that, Aelle’s grin widened a bit and he looked to Osbehrt with a triumphant expression. Osbehrt only sighed to that and said, “Very well, it shall be done as you said. I admit that I am very perplexed for this demand is very unfair, not to us but to you. But since this is your decision, we shall abide by it.”

Ivar inclined his head slightly to that, his smile even sweeter than before, and said, “You have my thanks.”

And to the warrior at his back, King Osbehrt bellowed, “Get the largest bull from the pens, slaughter it, and take its hide. Make sure that the hide has no damages and that no portion of it is lost.”

As the Saxon king’s men scurried to obey, Ivar leaned back on his chair, relaxed and calm. And ever so subtly he took the holy pendant on his neck and brought it to his lips.

Upon seeing that, Sigurd’s mind was even more boggled than before. However, this time, he did not try to understand his little brother’s intentions anymore. For it was clear that Ivar was being guided by Mimir’s divine mind, and no mortal could possibly fathom what the stern Lord of Prophecy had revealed unto him.

It was almost noon when the bull’s hide arrived, and when it did, it was already meticulously cleaned and washed, for the Northumbrian kings were careful to fulfill their promise. Indeed, it was a great blessing to them that one of King Ragnar’s sons was of a gentle and peaceable demeanor, a cool-headed leader willing to settle with the enemy to protect his brothers and his warriors from needless slaughter.

They had now left the tent of treaty and rode to the place where King Ragnar met his demise. Aelle seemed hesitant to show the place for the hole was already closed with dirt and stones, and to attempt to dig the body buried underneath would take a long time to accomplish.

As to Ivar’s part, he did not demand an excavation. And there was nothing but words of thanks on his lips upon his receipt of the bull’s hide. And to that Osbehrt said,

“Now, we had fulfilled the wergild you have demanded of us. And so, I expect you to fulfill your promise also, that you will take only the land as large as that bull’s hide, and that you shall not make any further attacks upon the Northumbrian kingdom.”

And Ivar answered, “I swear onto the Gods and my father’s name that I shall fulfill my promise, that I shall take only the land as large as this bull’s hide, and that I shall not make any further attacks upon the Northumbrian kingdom.”

Hearing that, Aelle smiled in relief and Osbehrt nodded. Afterwards the three of them shook their hands and then the Saxon kings and their soldiers left.

Now that the Northumbrians have returned to the safety of York’s walls, Sigurd couldn’t take it any longer and he removed his disguise, and he said unto his brother, “What are you planning to do with that?”

Upon suddenly hearing his older brother’s voice behind him, Ivar was so startled that he fell off his chair. Fortunately, Vigrid, who was always beside his king, caught him from his fall and settled him into his seat once again. 

When Ivar turned to him, Sigurd saw the immense surprise in his brother’s face, in those beautiful wide eyes filled with awe and wonder. And Sigurd’s heart started to beat faster for Ivar had smiled unto him in great admiration and said, “You’re amazing, brother. You were with me all along and I never noticed. You’re a true spymaster indeed. I envy your skill.”

Sigurd felt a blush rising to his cheeks, and so, to hide his embarrassment, he laughed mockingly and said, “Flattery will get you nowhere. Answer my question, you boneless imbecile.”

Ivar only laughed lightly at his insult and said, “Well, I’m going to do as I have promised – I shall take land as large as this hide and shall make no attacks against Aelle and Osbehrt.”

Sigurd snorted to that and said, “Stop lying, you crippled worm.”

And to his greatest annoyance, Ivar only chuckled further and said, “I’m not lying. I will fulfill my promise. Wait and see.” Then he winked at his older brother, probably imitating Hvitserk.

Sigurd could only roll his eyes at such display. Ivar didn’t seem to mind his slight hostility for he had turned his attention to his warriors and in a gentle but strong voice commanded them,

“Scouts, guard the area carefully. See to it that no Saxon ever enters this place. If you ever see an intruder, take care of them immediately.

“Shieldmaidens of the green company and the blue company, assist the scouts. If you ever capture a high value enemy, torture them for information. You may break their bones and remove their teeth and fingernails, but do not kill them, for we may sell them for ransom.”

When the scouts and the two companies of shieldmaidens immediately scattered to obey, Ivar turned to the berserkers and said,

“I need at least ten berserkers to hold the hide steady. Stretch it as far as you can without breaking it. I know you are familiar with this job, for you do the same to create the attire you wear on the battlefield. To the rest of you, I need you to gather some wood to make poles, the ones you usually make to hang upon the heads of beheaded foes.”

The first ten berserkers obeyed, a bit clumsy at first, for they were used to handling bear pelts and wolf skins. But they were able to do as their king had commanded, and the hide was successfully stretched. Afterwards, the rest came and showed Ivar the poles, and he nodded to them in approval. And then he told them,

“Secure the edges of the stretched hide with the poles.”

And when it was finished, he turned to the rest of the shieldmaidens and said unto them,

“Shieldmaidens of the red company, your specialty is in skinning and slicing people alive. And so, I trust that you can accomplish this task. I want you to carefully partition the hide as thinly as you can. The goal is to further expand the hide so that we may cover as much land as possible.”

To that, the shieldmaidens immediately went to perform the task at hand with as much efficiency as they could muster. When the hide could be sliced no more, the leader of the company said, “This is as far as we can go, my king.”

And Ivar smiled to her and gently said, “You have done very well. You and your company may rest now.” Now, he turned once more to the berserkers who had been watching the proceedings at the side,

“Berserkers, I know that you are terrifying warriors but blessed with the gentlest of hands. For when you are not imbibing your divine mushrooms, I have seen how you torture your captives so beautifully. And so, I trust you to spread the hide very carefully. And after you’re done, reposition the poles as our landmarks.”

As he saw the flurry of activity around, Sigurd greatly appreciated the scheme at hand. For he now realized that his little brother had just secured a safe point of entry very near Northumbria’s fortified capital. And how beautifully accomplished the ploy was, for there were no warriors who were wounded or captured or killed. Most importantly, the Saxons had not yet noticed the trick Ivar had just played on them.

When the thinly sliced skin was spread out, Sigurd sucked his breath in astonishment for the bull’s hide was now expanded almost fifty-fold, thanks to everyone’s special talents. And when the poles were repositioned, the area it covered was so large that an entire fortress could be built into it with some farmland to spare.

Sigurd couldn’t help but laugh, for the Northumbrians had been completely hoodwinked. His mirth got the better of him and so, without thinking, he put his arms around Ivar’s shoulders and kissed his cheek, and he said unto him, “You miserable, useless, foolish imbecile! How do you think about such wonderful ideas? It’s as if the Gods themselves had planned all of this. You’re a genius!”

In response, Ivar touched his hand ever so gently and smiled, and then he looked deeply into Sigurd’s eyes and said, “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

And upon beholding that look in his little brother’s face, Sigurd was reminded once more of those days long gone when they were very young, when Ivar used to sit by the fire and looked at him with that same twinkle in his eyes. And in those eyes, his heart started to drown once more, started to dream again of the sweetness of his love and the pain that accompanied it, for he well knew that this love was a love that would never be reciprocated.

To veil away his emotions, Sigurd laughed mockingly, took his hand away from Ivar’s gentle touch, and said, “Hmph! Don’t get used to it. Genius or not, to me, you’re still my idiot brother.”

“Of course, my king,” Ivar responded with a mocking bow. And then he chuckled, his eyes still sparkling, quite amused at the fake annoyance on his brother’s face.

For a moment there, Sigurd was afraid that Ivar somehow saw through him, saw through his pain and his anguish and his desire blossoming once more. As if to placate him, his little brother turned his eyes to Hvitserk’s men and said unto them,

“Go back to my brother Hvitserk and relay to him this news – the land is now secure and the enemy still unaware of our progress. Come now for we shall have our revenge. Bring everyone along.”

-

After the negotiations were finalized, the two Saxon kings returned together to celebrate. Once the news of the treaty with Ivar son of Ragnar started to spread, the nobles comprising their joint Witan were overjoyed. Some were skeptical, but upon hearing that Ivar was a crippled king with a peaceable disposition, and thus posed no real threat, they were eventually placated. And so, when the Witan was finally disassembled, almost every member therein was satisfied and only very few still harboured anxiety.

In a few short days, the Northumbrian armies which were mostly comprised of peasant militias had started to disperse as well, the men eager to leave the battlefield to return to their villages. For the All Saint’s Day was only a very few days away, and the people wanted to observe their holy day in peace.

Thus, when the hallowed day finally came, Aelle and Osbehrt joined their people for the Holy Mass, their dispositions now truly peaceful and in harmony with each other. Their dispute on kingship still persisted but their unity remained unshakeable, for they had just made their foe surrender.

As the Bishop raised the sacred Host upon the altar, Aelle and Osbehrt knelt with their heads bowed low. At that divine moment, a messenger ran into the church and in a loud voice said unto them, “The Danes are at the gates!”

Upon hearing such words, Aelle stood up, his body as stiff as the hair standing at the back of his neck. Osbehrt on the other hand maintained his calm, stood up carefully and looked upon the people. And when he looked around, he saw that everyone was on a panic. The Bishop himself was so overcome with fear that he dropped the sacred Host he was holding before picking it up once more with his shaking hands.

And so, to placate his people, Osbehrt said, “Hold yourselves together! If you believe that Our Lord is with us, fear not! Do not run blindly and silence yourselves!”

When they heard such words, the people, nobles and commoners alike, regained their wits and looked to their king. And Osbehrt bid the messenger to continue speaking, and so the man relayed the news,

“They are climbing the old Roman wall. Our archers weren’t able to protect it for they were also here attending the Mass. My kings, many of them are on our grounds now. They have started pillaging every house they passed by.”

Osbehrt nodded to that, bid the messenger and the people to be quiet, and said,

“My people! This is not the time for fear and for panic. We must flee at this very moment but we must do so in an orderly fashion. Men, get your swords from the front door. Women, secure your children. We cannot go back into our houses to secure our property, so everything of value within this Church we must bring with us.”

To that, the Bishop himself led the women in taking down all the gold, silver and other treasures, including the crucifixes and other holy items. Some of the children had even managed to get the bread from the nearby convent. Upon seeing that the people were ready, Osbehrt bellowed,

“Soldiers, lead everyone into the secret gates. Good people of York, do not shove or push each other aside. We are all in this together. Nobody fear, nobody panic! We shall survive, you hear me? God is with us!”

And to that, he pulled Aelle with him. Together, they led the people into the hidden gates and finally out of the city. Once outside, they bid everyone to flee into the forested lands of Mercia. It was a very tedious travel but everyone, even the children, were quite energetic. Indeed, fear was the greatest source of strength for the most of them. For they well knew that if they mistakenly slowed down their running, what would befall them was a fate worse than death itself.

When they were finally at a fair distance from their home city, some of the people turned their eyes back to York and were overcome with horror with what their eyes beheld. For no longer was the holy flag of Northumbria hanging upon the walls and the gates. On its place was the Danes’ raven banner proudly flying atop the once English domain.

With that sight was the loud screaming of so many peoples, for there were those who refused to leave their houses out of loyalty to their native land, and also those unable to walk from their beds due to illness or old age. Nothing was left of them but their screams echoing into the skies, and perhaps their mangled bodies heaped upon the ground.

And to that, many Northumbrians wept and knelt upon the ground beating their breasts in unspeakable grief. Aelle himself was still so overcome with shock. ‘What had gone wrong?’ his face seemed to say. Osbehrt on the other hand was contemplating, and after a while he asked aloud,

“Has no one noticed anything unseemly? Has not Ivar son of Ragnar shown a hint of aggression? Soldiers near the Roman wall, have you not seen anything noteworthy at all? I find it hard to believe that they caught us like this, and yet here we are.”

For a moment there was a brief silence, and then one of the nobles spoke,

“It didn’t seem like aggression to me so I failed to report. But I did notice the Danish king Ivar ride near my domain to supervise the construction of a landmark. It was the edge of the bull’s hide that Your Highness had given him as wergild.”

Osbehrt’s brows furrowed to that. Ivar had not broken his promise then, so what went wrong?

And then, another noble from a farther domain also admitted, “I have also seen him do the same near my lands.”

Another also said the same thing, and then many others afterwards. And Osbehrt’s mind was boggled even more and he asked aloud, “Lords and ladies, your lands are far apart from each other and yet the bull’s hide reached you? That’s improbable, nay, impossible.”

To that, the first noble who spoke answered, “The hide was truly there, Sire, but it was stretched very thinly. Sliced even, I reckon. But on my part, I did not suspect anything for most of the people who helped the Danes were Frisian merchants from Dorestad. They even exchanged their goods to some of my people.” Then he showed a beautiful ring upon his hand and said, “This was one of the items I bought from them, sold to me by their duke named Ubba.”

And one of the ladies spoke, “In my domain, there were Irish merchants, some of them holy monks who talked of the Good News according to Saint John himself. Thus, I suspected nothing unseemly.”

One of the lords also spoke out, “And in mine, there were Franks along with some Swedes. I was a little baffled by their presence, but there was a Christian prince among them, and so I did not suspect aggression.”

Upon hearing such words, Osbehrt fell on the ground and closed his eyes, his countenance greatly defeated. For it was clear that Ivar’s words of peace were mere parts of a grander scheme. And what a scheme it was for it had caused the fall of York itself.

Seeing such expression from his former rival’s face, Aelle who had been standing anxiously at the side mustered his courage. For Osbehrt’s calm had been the strength that saved most of their people, and Aelle could not bear to see him being overcome by the enemy, not even if Aelle himself greatly admired the said enemy. And so, he knelt to where the other Saxon king had slumped, put his hands upon his shoulders, and said unto him,

“Osbehrt, my dearest brother, beat yourself not for it was my folly that led into this disaster. If anyone deserves the wrath of God, if anyone deserves to feel shame and defeat, if anyone deserves to be killed by the Danes, mayhap tortured and quartered by them, it is me and not you. This calamity was caused by me and me alone, brought upon you and our people by my lust for power and my uncalled-for rebellion against you.

“It may seem too late but I shall now give up my claim on the Northumbrian kingdom. You are the rightful king – I will challenge you no longer. Thus, I implore you, stand up once more, for our people, for our children. I beg you to call upon the great warrior I have always known since my youth, Osbehrt, elder son of Aethelred, my sweet brother who had been my rock and my fortress before our personal spite tore us asunder.

“Know this, and it is no jest, I will stand beside you to my last breath, Sire.”

And after saying such words, Aelle bowed his head to his brother in respect.

Upon beholding his brother thus, a tear escaped from Osbehrt’s eye, and then another, and then another. For he knew that Aelle was a man of great pride. To see him humble himself like this was something Osbehrt could not also bear to see.

And so, Osbehrt hardened his heart, wiped away his tears and stood up. And in a loud voice he said,

“We must make camp here for a while and rest, for we had just endured a terrible fate. After noon, I want all soldiers to gather around and give a full accounting of the weapons we still have. For we shall take York back from those heathen bastards.”

Hearing their king’s words, the Northumbrians were filled with hope once again. With tears in their eyes, they hearkened intently to Osbehrt’s encouragement.

“Fear not, my people, for we shall win against them. Before summer’s end, we shall hang their heads on the ramparts! And the glory of Northumbria shall be restored once more! God is with us!”

“God is with us!” the people shouted in unison.

To that, Aelle smiled at the sight, greatly relieved. And when Osbehrt turned to him once more, he spread his arms in a gesture of openness. His brother took the opportunity and they embraced each other, the first embrace they shared after their five years of estrangement.

At their side, Princess Blaeja beheld her father and uncle as they made peace and renewed their brotherhood once again. And yet despite the amicable atmosphere and the people’s exuberance slightly returning, there was a feeling she could not explain. It was a feeling of foreboding gnawing deeply in her gut.

To comfort herself, she touched Tiw’s cross on her neck in a silent prayer. And yet as she did so, lighting sparked atop the skies and shone its holy light upon the raven flag on York’s gate.

-

Once the takeover of York was completed, twilight had already fallen upon the heavens. Guards for the night’s watch were already dispersed around to take their shift and the rest of the warriors were eating and drinking, bonding with each other. Everyone’s spirits were jolly and high, for the Northumbrian capital had many riches previously unseen from many other lands.

To some of the warriors however, the greatest rewards were the beautiful Saxon women who were unable to escape from the onslaught. Both male and female warriors indulged themselves in the pleasures of such beauties. Even the Frankish prince had his fill, even though he was Christian like the nuns he ravaged.

Ivar did not partake in the warriors’ lust, not because he was faithful to his wife but because he preferred to be in Hvitserk’s company, much to Sigurd’s jealousy. And so, to calm himself, Sigurd looked to his brothers’ children instead who were also bonding with each other.

Sigtrygg in particular was so enamored of Guthrum and listened to his every word. But Sigurd noticed that Bjorn’s son never seemed to interact with his own father. Indeed, he never addressed himself as Guthrum Bjornsson, preferring to call himself just Guthrum, and he hearkened to Hvitserk more than Bjorn and perhaps respected his uncle more than he respected his father.

When he looked to the side, Sigurd saw his half-brother looking upon his son with very sad eyes and then sighed and turned away. Ubbe seemed to have noticed that as well and asked, “What’s wrong, brother?”

And Bjorn answered, “I’m just happy that my son is well-liked by his cousins.”

Ubbe raised an eyebrow to that and asked once more, “If you’re so happy, why are you sighing like that?”

Their firstborn brother paused for a while, drank some mead, and then said, “It’s just,” then he paused once more, mayhap struggling to find the words to say, “It’s very rare for me to see him smile like that. My eldest son is a very sad child. He lost his mother when he was still a baby, so I remarried immediately, thinking that his new mother would take care of him.”

Bjorn paused once more, and upon seeing his countenance, Sigurd understood that his nephew’s lot under his stepmother’s hands was not very pleasant. And Bjorn continued,

“Well, my second wife did assign some servants to take care of him. But of course, she never liked him. Her children were all the world to her for she was a very loving mother. And in her eyes, Guthrum was a threat to their future. And stupid, stupid me who raided almost all year round, I never noticed the bruises on my son’s body. I only knew of the mistreatment he suffered when my wife hacked him with an axe over a very small infraction.”

Hearing that, Ubbe’s brows knotted angrily and he said, “And you just let her get away with it?”

“What can I do?” Bjorn sighed. “She is Hastein’s daughter. I fought with her, of course, but I could never find a retort when she told me that she gave me many sons, that our sons must be my heirs or she would tell her father to severe his alliance with me.”

When Bjorn looked to his son once more, he smiled bitterly and said, “He doesn’t even want to acknowledge me as his father anymore. It is his right to deny me that recognition for I was a bad father to him.”

Then he looked to Hvitserk who was not listening to the conversation, and he called to him, “Halfdan, pay attention to me.”

And Hvitserk gently tightened his arms embracing Ivar from behind, glared at their half-brother, and said, “Don’t call me that. You know that I hate my name.”

Bjorn stuck his tongue at him in jest and then said, “I know that we’re still pursuing our enemies for we have not yet killed our father’s murderer. But after we kill Aelle, I’m going back to Sweden. However, my son will not be going back with me. Can I entrust him to your care?”

Ivar laughed to that, and Hvitserk seemed to have understood why their youngest brother had laughed so, for he said, “Is your child a baby that he needs a guardian to care for him? He is always welcome in my home but not as a fragile child for he is my beloved nephew, strong and courageous. My daughters will most definitely welcome him for they have always wanted a brother.”

Hearing that, Bjorn smiled, greatly relieved. And he said, “Thank the Gods that I have my little brother to rely upon.”

Hvitserk must have noticed the sadness creeping upon their firstborn brother’s face for he exclaimed, “Eeej! It is I who relies upon Guthrum, brother. For my house is so full of women who need a cock to satisfy them.” Bjorn laughed loudly to that and Hvitserk continued, “I’m getting old now and my strength is waning. Indeed, I participate in battles frequently so that I could run away from my obligations. But young Guthrum’s virility could help me out.”

And upon seeing that Bjorn’s mood had lightened considerably, Hvitserk said, “In all seriousness, brother, you need not worry too much. With Ivar and me by your son’s side, he would be a great ruler. We shall conquer the world and give him kingdoms.”

Bjorn smiled to that, his eyes glazed with unshed tears. But Sigurd noticed that the tears therein were no longer of sadness but immense joy. Ubbe thoughtfully gazed upon them, and also smiled, perhaps also happy that his elder brother’s burden was finally lifted.

On the subsequent days, there was a lull, a quiet moment where the enemy seemed to have disappeared completely. But Sigurd knew better for his spies reported on the Northumbrian kings’ whereabouts, how they forged alliances with King Burgred of Mercia and King Aethelred of Wessex, of how they failed to negotiate with King Edmund of East Anglia, for that ruler was still bitter with Mercia’s former dominance over him and his people.

And so, the Saxon attack during that fateful afternoon was already expected. But what took them by surprise was Ivar falling ill on that fateful day. It was so sudden and so unexpectedly terrible, for their youngest brother was in so much pain that he was not able to get up.

Thus, in his absence, Hvitserk took command and split the Great Army with Guthrum. Bjorn was quite proud that his son proved himself an able commander, so much so that he had gained followers, one of whom was a very young Norwegian earl named Hrolfr.

Together with Bjorn and Ubbe’s forces, they were able to stop the advancing Saxons from regaining the city. But the Northumbrians found themselves a clever ally in King Aethelred, for it was the king of Wessex who counselled Aelle and Osbehrt to stop direct attacks against the Vikingrs. It was he who advised the Northumbrians to cut off the new denizens of York from their water sources and to simply starve them out.

It was a good tactic for the Danes were not prepared for this type of conflict. Indeed, they were starting to run out of food and water and the Great Army now started to harbor despair among their ranks. Their commanders were all able men but they did not possess Ivar’s unusual wisdom.

On the fourth day of the siege, Ivar finally woke up but his eyes were still so blue, a sign of the great pain he still endured. And yet, even when he had not yet truly recovered, he was immediately thrown into the conflict.

Sigurd wanted to hold his little brother close at that time, for Ivar still seemed too weak to take upon his shoulders the burden of leadership. Hvitserk seemed to have the same idea for he said, “I know you’re still hurting. Please rest for a while, little brother. I can’t bear to see you like that.”

Ivar only smiled to that, his countenance veiling the immense suffering in his body, and he said, “I might have to ask you to endure the pain in your heart, dear brother. For I am a king and I must do my duty even when I am sick. And besides, I’m used to the pain already. This pain has always been with me ever since I was born.”

And then their youngest brother bid his most trusted warrior to enter and said unto him, “Carry me to the ramparts so that I may see the enemy and their formations.”

Vigrid’s eyes seemed to be glazed with tears but he wordlessly obeyed. Hvitserk buried his face in his palm and didn’t say anything more, for he respected Ivar’s words. But Sigurd did not have that same disposition as his older brother. For his concern for his little brother’s well-being overpowered everything else.

And so, he followed Vigrid who carried Ivar in his arms like a husband would carry his wife. Sigurd was momentarily jealous, and then he realized that this was not the first instance he had seen this. For Vigrid was Ivar’s loyal servant since their childhood years but he was always in the background, always in the shadows, like a faithful dog watching over his master without expecting anything in return.

As he watched the scout commander carry his king and allowed him to look into the enemy camp, Sigurd noticed the little things he had ignored for years, how Vigrid’s eyes looked upon his king wistfully and yet resignedly, how tenderly he held Ivar as though he was the most precious thing in the world, how he relished this rare moment where he could hold his king so closely in his arms. And to Vigrid’s pain, Ivar never noticed a thing for all his attention was somewhere else.

After a while, Ivar’s brows knotted for a while before separating once more, and he said, “It really pains me to say this, but I can see no way that we could solve this without sacrificing some of our troops. The Saxons have us completely trapped. How did this happen?”

“Your brothers were taken over by grief when you fell ill, my king,” Vigrid replied. His voice was steady and yet Sigurd could hear the love therein, and yet it was a love well-hidden, veiled by the guise of formality just like how Sigurd hid his own longing through the guise of contempt.

Just like Sigurd’s pretence, Ivar bought Vigrid’s show of rigid loyalty and merely said, “And now I am the one grieving for this is a terrible circumstance. What were you and your troops doing?”

Vigrid only bowed to that and said, “I fell short of my duty, my king.”

Ivar sighed and looked to his scout commander intently. Vigrid seemed to flinch a bit, mayhap afraid that his king would notice his true feelings. But then Ivar said, “Very well. I shall give you the chance to redeem yourself. I need you to lead a regiment of warriors to act as a decoy. Will you do it?”

And Vigrid answered, “Whatever my king commands, I shall obey.”

To that, Ivar sighed deeply, quite disappointed with himself, and then he said, “Forgive me. I’m just frustrated and taking my anger out on you.”

Vigrid blinked to that, and in his hidden place, Sigurd felt his bitterness rising from within. For Ivar placed his hand tenderly on Vigrid’s face and then said, “You didn’t fall short of your duty, that much I know. For I have known you all my life and you were anything but inefficient. This is a request from me, not a command. You have every right to refuse this task for it risks your life.”

“But I always risk my life for you, my king,” Vigrid said. “And if you’re angry, I feel no grudge if you pour it out onto me. I can take it.” And the scout commander opened his mouth a bit, perhaps deliberating, and then he said, “A-And if you wish to share you burden with me, I will listen. For my only desire is to serve you in any way I can.”

Ivar laughed lightly to that and then sighed. “I know. You have said the same thing to me many times before.” Then he patted Vigrid’s shoulders with his hands and said, “I don’t want to ask this of you for I do not wish to risk your life. I am only asking you this for I see no other means to get away from our enemies’ clutches. Do you understand what I mean?”

“I-I understand, my king,” Vigrid stammered.

“So before we go back and formulate the plans, I want you to remember this clearly: defend your life as if you are defending mine, for I do not wish to lose you,” Ivar said. And ignoring Vigrid’s mesmerized countenance, Ivar continued, “You are my most trusted warrior and so, I cannot trust anyone else to do this job efficiently. But I’m begging you, protect yourself and follow my instructions closely, hm?”

“Y-Yes, my king.”

And to that, Sigurd’s anger was inflamed, for Vigrid’s disposition was so irritating. More like a maiden being coy towards a man she likes. And to his endless chagrin, Ivar didn’t seem to notice. It was very mind-boggling how his little brother was very intelligent with regards to war and the matters of the state but quite stupid in discerning someone’s feelings.

“We should return now,” Ivar said.

Vigrid looked quite regretful that his moment with his king was about to end, but he resignedly obeyed Ivar’s command.

But just as they were about to descend back into the camp, Ivar was overcome by his pain once more and he bid the scout commander to stop walking.

And Vigrid said, “But you are in pain, my king. I must tell your brother Hvitserk about it.”

Ivar held onto Vigrid’s shirt and said, “Don’t. Please don’t. My brother carries enough burdens on his shoulders and I do not want to add on to it. So please share my burden for a while and let me suffer in silence.”

Vigrid obeyed his king’s command immediately. And as he sat on the stone floor of the rampart, Ivar leaned onto his shoulder, his eyes closed, enduring the pain of his sickness. And as though they were one being, Vigrid’s tears flowed as if he felt his king’s pain as well.

As Sigurd watched them quietly, he felt a new pain blossoming within his heart. For it was obvious that Vigrid filled a space within Ivar’s heart as well, a space that was pure and blessed with trust and confidence. And Sigurd found that he envied that space greatly as well, for it was something he had also longed for ever since he was a child. But Ivar found solace on someone else’s arms, and Sigurd could only chide himself for his unwarranted bitterness. For this pure intimacy was a reward for Vigrid’s unwavering loyalty and devotion, something that Sigurd was too proud to offer.

After a long while, Ivar moved, perhaps his pain already diminished. Vigrid hastily wiped away his tears and schooled his face back into a soldier’s rigid countenance, and he asked, “Do you feel better now, my king?”

And Ivar smiled, not the same sweet smile that he gave Hvitserk, for this gentle smile was filled with gratitude and warm appreciation, a smile reserved only for Vigrid. And he said, “Yes, I feel better now.” Then he sighed, but it was a relaxed sigh, and he said, “Now, my man, we need to go back, for we must confound these Saxons. Remember what I told you. Take care of yourself and defend your life, for I cannot bear to lose you.”

And Vigrid nodded to that with a bashful smile and obeyed his king’s command.

As the scout commander left with his king, Sigurd closed his eyes, greatly embarrassed by the tears falling down his face. For he now realized that his fate was his own doing. He had always known that he loved his brother but through the years, he never expressed his feelings honestly, he even denied it so violently that it led Ivar to believe his façade of hatred.

And his eyes were focused mostly on Hvitserk, for he greatly envied the sweet love that his elder brother shared with Ivar on his bed. And yet, Vigrid’s love was different for it was a love purely of the heart. Perhaps there was also desire therein, but that was secondary, for Vigrid’s devotion was already content even without the pleasures of the bed.

Sigurd envied that love very much for the sight of it reminded him of Ivar’s smile when he was a small child, of how he used to raise his hands towards Ubbe whenever he felt afraid of the thunder, of how he laughed when Hvitserk carried him on his back as they played on the riverbanks a long time ago.

But Sigurd never showed his affection, never voiced his love, never told Ivar how much he meant to him. Now, there was nothing to be done but accept his own folly, foolish man that he was.

_-_

_tbc_


	9. Chapter 9

It was dawn, the light not yet fully pronounced upon the heavens, when the Saxon scouts noticed the gates of York slightly ajar. King Osbehrt saw how a few Danes slipped out, mayhap tired and hungry due to the siege but obviously drunk, for they were riding their horses in mirth and singing jolly songs in loud but slurring voices.

Looking upon the ramparts, the Northumbrian king noticed that the archers were also missing. And in his mind, he thought that perhaps this was the opportunity Aethelred had been telling them about, their one chance to defeat the enemy completely.

His grip upon his sword tightened as he told himself, ‘No, not yet. We cannot be sure if this is an opportunity or another trap.’

He thought these things for he remembered Ivar’s seeming honesty. For the Danish king’s noble bearing and demeanor belayed his treacherous intentions, thus taking Northumbria’s capital in one fell swoop.

For a while, Osbehrt was confused at how a man of Ivar’s caliber would allow himself to be trapped in a siege like this. But then, he remembered that the king of the Danes was crippled, mayhap suffering from some hidden disease that he refused to reveal to his enemies. It is only regretful that there was no way for Osbehrt to confirm his suspicions, for that information could greatly guide the Saxons for their next course of action.

In his hidden place behind the trees, Osbehrt saw how red the men’s eyes were, a sign that they were truly inebriated. The Saxon king paused once more, his mind racing. The open gate was an invitation, and yet he thought of many reasons why the Danes would come out like this. Perhaps it was the desperation, hunger and thirst had addled their brains to do something as stupid as this.

And so, deciding to take this chance, Osbehrt gave the signal to the men atop the trees. Soon enough, the leader of his scouts freed the doves from their cage, a signal that only Aelle and their allies would understand.

After a while, the Danes were still drunkenly giggling about and riding their horses nonchalantly. And so, to the archers already forming their lines under the trees and on the branches, Osbehrt raised his hand signalling them to ready their arrows. Then he raised his hand to signal, “Fire!”

The Danes jostled each other in surprise. But they were too late to react, for before they could beat their horses to run, they were already pierced by the Saxons’ many arrows. Indeed, some of them fell off from their mounts. It was only too surprising that most managed to run back to York’s open gates. Those who did not survive fell dead on the spot and yet those who didn’t ran like madmen with no regard for pain, even as their legs were like dressmakers’ cushions stuck with many pins.

And so, Osbehrt mounted his horse and galloped after the enemy in pursuit, with Aelle following closely behind. After them rode the ruler of Wessex, King Aethelred, his brother Alfred. Alongside them rode Heahmund, the Bishop of Sherborne.

This battle was important, not only to Northumbria but also Wessex. For there was news of another great heathen army in the northern territories of Pictland, another band of Danes led by a king called Amlaib by the Irish. Reports had it that the fierce barbarian had lopped off the head of Constantine, the king of Alba, and subjugated the Picts into untold misery. Aethelred needed as many allies as he could to protect Wessex from such an onslaught.

To the Northumbrians, this was a battle for their very survival. For York was the only Northumbrian stronghold with formidable walls. If they could not defeat Ivar’s Great Army, they would be doomed to remain in the open and risk being annihilated by Amlaib Conung.

And so, the coalition of Saxon armies threw York’s gates open and ran after the Danes in pursuit, ran after them until all of the Saxon soldiers were within the walls.

But a strange thing happened. For the gate was suddenly closed, its ramparts suddenly barricaded with Danish archers and shield-bearers seeming to appear out of nowhere.

Aelle was stunned, his fear apparent, but Osbehrt held his ground. There were only few archers therein, not so much of a threat, for the Saxon army was more numerous and also equipped with shields. And the Danes looked truly weary for the siege must have taken its toll. Within the walls, Osbehrt saw that the only formidable enemy warriors were the Danes they had pursued. And this time, he saw how those heathens stopped their running and turned to their pursuers, their eyes as red as the Devil’s face.

Osbehrt was greatly taken aback by that. For these warriors looked just as hungry as the rest and most were wounded, and yet they stood as if they felt no pain. Accidentally, or perhaps due to his fear getting the better of him, one of the Saxons threw a lance and pierced one of the enemy warriors. But the Dane simply took the lance impaling his shoulder and pulled it out.

The Saxon soldiers stepped back, quite afraid, for the bloodied Dane started laughing and turned to his companions who also laughed. And to their horror, the enemy suddenly roared as though possessed by Satan himself. Then they threw themselves to the Saxons with no regard for their own lives and started to stab everyone within their reach. One Dane accidentally stabbed himself, and upon realizing his mistake, simply pulled out his sword to stab a nearby Saxon.

Upon beholding such sight, Bishop Heahmund swallowed hard, for he clearly saw that these Danes were no ordinary warriors, the likes of which he had never seen before. But as he looked around, he saw the Saxon soldiers screaming in fear and attempting to escape their wretched lot. And so, to reinvigorate their spirit, the young bishop held his ground, drew his sword, and loudly proclaimed,

“Repent! Repent, ye sinners! Ye hypocrites and destroyers of peace! Repent! All ye fools and snakes and damned degenerates! Sons of Satan, tremble and fall on your knees! For the Kingdom of the Lord is at hand!”

And with no regard for his own life, he galloped towards the Danes who, like inhuman beasts, railed at the bishop and his horse. But to Osbehrt’s relief, the bishop’s resolve reawakened the courage of the Saxon soldiers and they rallied to Heahmund, no longer demoralized but ready to die for a higher purpose.

Seeing the bishop’s diversion working, Osbehrt looked around and identified one of the men on horseback. He identified the redheaded one, Ivar’s herald and aide, and he only had a few warriors in his company.

Aelle caught sight of the man as well and, fired up by the bishop’s resolve, immediately pulled the reins of his horse and yelled, “Warriors, charge!”

Osbehrt smiled to that, re-formed his own men and followed his brother’s example.

Aethelred on the other hand turned towards a lone tower in the midst of the raging battle. And perhaps it was by chance, perhaps God’s warning, for his eyes met a pair of wide, blue orbs gazing down upon him. And as the Saxon soldiers fell one after the other, their great numbers held useless by York’s narrow terrain, the Wessex king beheld a smile from those lips, for the English had been successfully baited.

To that, Aethelred realized that this foe was no ordinary Dane. For most of the heathen kings merely wanted to pillage and then leave, but this one wanted to truly hold a Saxon territory and stake a permanent claim over it. There and then, Aethelred understood that his presence on this battlefield had been part of the enemy’s plan, for the objective was to eliminate all English kings, and thus, subjugate all Anglo-Saxon realms completely.

In his realization, Aethelred shuddered in fear and stepped back. And in his moment of weakness, his arms were held by someone. When he turned to gaze upon his savior, there was Alfred, his little brother who had been both his rival and confidante in their younger years. And despite the new blossoming enmity between them, they understood each other completely. Their forces were trapped and there seems to be no way out. But when Aethelred opened his lips to speak, Alfred said,

“Hush, brother. Worry not. I found a way.”

And the prince took his king by the hand and together, they wormed into a hole leading to the sewers.

When Bishop Heahmund saw that opening, he dismounted from his horse, furiously stabbed his way out of the sea of Danes and Saxons, and jumped into the hole. So much for his Christian bravado – Heaven can wait.

Thus, the Wessex king, prince, and bishop, and all Saxons soldiers who had the foresight to escape their impending doom went down that hole, endured the muck and the filth, and walked on their way to survival.

Atop his place on that tower, Ivar saw their escape. But pursuing the Wessex king was too late, for the hole had been closed by one of the berserkers still on holy trance, the location turned into another battlefield, littered with corpses.

Beside the Dublin king, Halfdan Hvitserk sighed and said, “That Aethelred and his brother are formidable rulers, I hear. We should have killed them.”

Guthrum who was with them said, “Forgive me, uncle. It was my neglect that caused this.”

Ivar calmly listened to their words and said, “No matter. We shall capture them later.”

And he turned to Vigrid who had just accomplished his mission and said, “Tell my brothers Bjorn, Ubbe and Sigurd that we have caught the Northumbrian cretins. Now they can do as they please.”

The afternoon was bright, the sky as blue and as peaceful as a calm sea. Outside the walls of York, there was also peace, for the Saxons had already been defeated, their slain soldiers either dismembered or hung upside down as sacrifices. The survivors were in chains, divested of valuable armor, and placed on pens ready to be transported to the slave markets of Dublin.

Indeed, the Northumbrians were completely subjugated for their two kings were laid in front of all to see. On one side was Osbehrt’s head displayed on a pike. On the other was Aelle, still alive but nailed on a cross like the Savior himself, but a cross too short for the Saxon king was made to kneel on the ground. And unto him, Ivar said, “Have you anything to say for yourself?”

Aelle, greatly resigned to his incoming death, refused to answer. And so, Ivar gestured to one of his warriors. With that, another bucket of water was dumped upon the Northumbrian king’s bloodied form. The Danes laughed at such a sight, so hilarious to them was the enemy’s misery.

On a concealed place on a hollow tree where she had been hiding since the battle begun, Princess Blaeja saw her father’s miserable state. For despite her mother’s admonishing words, she had followed the soldiers on their way to York. It was a terrible journey, her feet sore and tired and bleeding. But she endured it for she was greatly afraid for her father.

And now, as she saw the disgrace Aelle had been thrust into, she refused to hold herself back. Throwing away her life, she ran towards her father. A few arrows immediately flew towards her piercing her right leg, her back and her shoulder. And yet, she refused to falter and she walked on, much to the amazement of the men surrounding her.

Upon seeing her, Aelle’s silence suddenly ended for he screamed at her saying, “Stupid girl! Get away from here!”

But the princess carried on, her body trembling but her courage unwavering. Despite the arrowheads, swords and lances pointed towards her, she braved on and spread out her arms acting as her father’s shield. The arrows piercing her body stuck out forcing the blood out of her and tears fell from her eyes in agony, and yet in a strong voice, she said,

“In the name of Tiw, Lord Almighty, I bring peace unto your majesties and beg you to give me an audience.”

Beholding her, the Danes seemed to have been frozen in great surprise. For some of them knew the Saxon tongue, and it was odd that a Christian princess would utter such words, calling upon the name of their God and not her own.

Even the Dublin king paused for a while. However, unlike his brothers and subordinates, he immediately regained his bearings and asked the girl, “And who might you be?”

“A stupid girl,” Aelle interjected. “She is crazy and means no harm, please let her go. Just kill me, but let her go, I beg of you!”

To that, everyone’s interest was piqued. Ubbe stared unblinkingly at the girl, so did Bjorn and Hvitserk. Sigurd, also with a bewildered countenance, said unto her, “You are a Saxon and yet you speak of Tiw as if he is your God and not the Christ God.”

And when she merely looked at him and did not answer, he said further unto her, “Speak freely, woman. Introduce yourself and say your intentions.”

And she blinked fast, both afraid and relieved, her tears falling to her cheeks mixing with the cold sweat from her brow. Still she did not falter and said unto him,

“I am Blaeja, daughter of Aelle, princess of Northumbria. I come unto you, Great and Benevolent Majesties, to beg for your mercy to spare my father’s life. You may take my life in exchange, only spare him.”

Aelle wanted to protest further to drive her away. But the princess would not have it. Instead, she knelt, her hands pressed together in supplication, and she said,

“In the name of Tiw, Lord God Almighty, son of Woden who rules the heaven and the earth, I swear to you that upon his release, my father will neither rebel nor seek revenge. For he is but an old man and already defeated. There is nothing to be gained if you kill him.”

Ivar blinked softly and he said unto her in a voice so gentle, “If I kill your father, I and my brothers will fulfill our revenge. Know this, sweet princess, for I bear no ill will towards you. Your father murdered my father in cold blood. As a son, it is my duty to murder my father’s killer. As a daughter who loves her father, surely, you understand my sentiments.”

Seeing that her plea for mercy had been dismissed, the princess hands fell to her sides and she wept greatly and unashamedly, her grief overpowering the manners expected upon her by her station. And she implored, “Then please give my father an honorable death. Sever not his head from his body and let him keep his sword as though he died of battle. For ‘tis the only way for him to reach Tiw’s Halls.”

Upon beholding his daughter lamenting in front of the five sons of Ragnar Lothbrok, Aelle felt something come upon him, like the dawn breaking out of the darkness of the night. Despite the pain in his hands and agony of defeat in his heart, he was able to see that this moment was a holy one, a divine instance given unto him to right all the wrongs he had done throughout his life.

For in this place, the Christ God was absent and the Old Gods held sway. And so great was his joy upon seeing all of that. For the Danish kings seemed to be the Gods themselves, or perhaps their likenesses sent upon the earth for this very moment. And he laughed, so great was his mirth, surprising the Danes surrounding him.

With renewed strength, he pulled his hands from the wooden cross. The nails dug into his flesh but he did not mind the pain. The left hand took the nail with it while the right was torn apart by his pulling, his bones and muscles destroyed by his own act. But the Northumbrian king cared not for there were more important matters at hand.

Aelle walked towards Blaeja and guided her to stand. Dismissing the surprise from her eyes and the horrifying pain emanating from his mangled hands, he turned towards the Danish rulers and said,

“Thor, Frey, Woden, Tiw and Mim, ye Gods of old who blessed me to live in prosperity until this very day, I beg forgiveness for my wrongdoings and offer you my life as a sacrifice. But there is one more thing I wish to offer – the hand of my only daughter. For I find no other suitable man to be her husband but he who hold reverence for the Old Gods upon his heart.”

Hearing that, Princess Blaeja turned to her father very afraid and astonished.

A brief silence reigned throughout the forest. The Danes too were greatly stunned, for this offer was too good to be true. Gaining the hand of a Northumbrian princess will legitimize Danish rule on English soil, but Aelle might yet be playing a game on them.

And yet, even Ivar paused in his surprise, for he could read that Aelle had no stratagem at hand. This was a genuine offer, not of an alliance or surrender, just a father seeking a suitable groom for his daughter.

In answer to the Saxon king, Sigurd Snake in the Eye came forward and broke the silence by saying, “I am Sigurd, son of Ragnar. I am willing to marry Blaeja, daughter of Aelle, if she will have me.”

When her father looked to her asking for her agreement, the princess trembled. And yet, seeing that look on her father’s face, she understood that this was Aelle’s last wish of her. And no matter the confusion, the anger and the horror, she decided to accept her father’s wish, for this was to honor him. Such was a princess’s duty to her king and to her land.

And so, she responded, “I, Blaeja, daughter of Aelle, accept Sigurd, son of Ragnar, for my husband.”

Greatly amazed by the unexpected turn of events, Ubbe summoned one of the priests of Freyr within his troops. Thus, the wedding was performed, not with flowers and merrymaking, but with blood, tears, and the bride’s father’s impending doom. And yet, there was a peculiar solemnity to it. Bjorn provided the groom’s ring and Hvitserk the bride’s ring, and Ivar removed the princess’s veil, symbolically freeing her from the confinements of maidenhood.

Aelle was greatly happy and that happiness was no pretence, for there were tears of joy in his eyes. With his bloodied hand, he took Blaeja’s hand and settled it upon Sigurd’s hand. And he said unto them, “Blessed and joyful is this day. For today, I have seen my daughter wed and afterwards, I shall begin my eternal stay in Tiw’s hall.”

To his newly-wedded daughter, he said, “Dear Blaeja, sweet daughter mine, be a dutiful wife, faithful and true, and bear your husband many children. May you be joyful in your husband’s arms all the days of your life.”

Then he turned to his son by law, gazed upon Tyr’s cross on the neck of Ragnar’s son, and unto him he said, “Dear Sigurd, as one devoted to Tiw as I am, I expect you to care for my daughter and the fruits of your union. May you and your house be filled with the Gods’ blessings and last until the end of time.”

Finally, the Northumbrian king turned his eyes to Ivar, and seeing the skull pendant on the Dublin king’s neck, he said, “And to you, Hyngwar, to whom the Wise All-Knowing Mim has bestowed his favor, I shall accept the way of death you will impose upon me.”

Ivar only smiled gently and said, “Since your daughter is now our sister, I shall abide with her request to leave your head attached to your body and provide you with a sword. Thus, I recommend that you shall be executed by the blood eagle.” And he turned to his brothers, sons, and nephew and said, “All in favor, say ‘aye’.”

Unanimously, everyone said, “Aye.”

The Northumbrian princess, now the new Danish queen, remained weeping, for she did not know what a blood eagle was and yet in her gut, she understood that it would be immensely painful. Sigurd merely held her bloodied hand and said, “Your father will die honorably as you wished. But this is a punishing death, woman. You might not wish to see it.”

Amid her tears, Blaeja said, “This is my father’s last moments. I shall see him ascend to Tiw in glory.”

With her words, everyone who understood was amazed. For this Saxon woman proved herself worthy of becoming Sigurd’s queen. One so brave and so devoted to the Gods was surely the one most suited to sit beside the throne of Denmark’s king. Aelle himself was quite proud, his happiness multiplied.

Thus, with the new queen in attendance, Aelle was once more nailed to the cross, but this time, his right hand was holding a sword. Pain was nothing to him even when Bjorn started to hack the ribs off of his back.

For as his body started to falter, his eyes were fixed on the sunny heavens, it’s brightness falling like waterfalls of light down the forest floor. And in his mind, foggy and numb due to the pain, he saw the mighty Tiw descending, the God’s arms held wide open to accept the new addition to his Halls.

Aelle grabbed onto the sword and said joyfully, “O Tiw, I thank Ye for this moment. ‘Tis the most joyous of my days for I have finally seen Thine fair and brave form with mine own eyes. I am ready now. Take me to your most holy dwelling.”

But nobody heard his words for Aelle’s voice had faltered without his knowing. Nobody saw the God’s hand reaching out to touch his head, for what everyone saw was the Saxon king breathing his last as the sun bathed him with an unusual brilliance. And so, he died with his hand gripping his sword and with a smile on his face.

So thus ended Northumbria – with a mixture of farewells and new beginnings.

Blaeja’s younger brother Ecgbehrt was given the throne, and yet he held no true power. For York had become established as a kingdom in its own right, now ruled by Halfdan Hvitserk as its king.

Beginning with Aelle’s death, York’s minted coins started bearing Halfdan’s face and name and would remain so throughout his reign.

-

Upon Aelle’s demise, the Great Army remained within the British Isles to find more riches to plunder, much to the horror of the inhabitants therein. More horrifying was the presence of Christians who partook in the raids.

As he and his new bride went to stay on her brother’s home, Sigurd greatly wondered how the said Christians remained attracted to the Old Ways despite professing their allegiance to the Christ God. The Frankish princes were great examples of that, but the one that surprised him the most was Aelle for his father in law’s death was a mystical one, replete with signs from the Gods.

The Northumbrian king was laid to rest on a tomb with a cross so as to pacify the citizens of the land, but none of them knew that it the symbol was Tyr’s. Blaeja herself attended the solemn funeral, never taking off her hand from that same cross on her neck as though it was her sole comfort and solace.

During the days of mourning, Sigurd saw how Ivar spent the time ingratiating himself to the Saxon nobles, posturing as a benevolent ruler with a kind heart, open and welcoming to everyone be they Dane, Norse, Gaelic or Saxon. The Saxon nobles were suspicious at first, but eventually they viewed Ivar as their new ruler even though he did not declare himself king. And so, using their king’s good reputation, many Danes and Norsemen under Ivar’s command were able to take highborn Saxon women for their wives, making themselves new nobles of the land.

As he watched the proceedings, Sigurd noticed how Ivar redirected the Saxon nobles to pay homage to Hvitserk instead, the same way that Hvitserk redirected many Irish kings to pay reverence to Ivar during their long years in Dublin.

And it worked beautifully, for Ivar’s seeming humility gained the hearts of many Christians. Thus, through his little brother’s machinations, Halfdan Hvitserk gained support from many noble houses and started to be seen even by some priests of the Christ God as the anointed king chosen by God the Father Himself.

Truly, they were a great pair, Hyngwar and Halfdene, models of fidelity and faithfulness – a younger brother renouncing his claim of kingship and an older brother showing his love in return.

And no matter how he averted his eyes or hardened his heart at such a sight, Sigurd’s heart kept breaking all over again. For his love remained unmovable and unchanging despite the years of pain it endured.

Thus, greatly, frustrated, Sigurd turned his eyes to his bride instead.

In his eyes, all women were the same. Blaeja might be noble but Sigurd had his fair share of princesses and ladies and none of them captured his heart. She was very much like everyone else, pretty, witty and brave but nothing special. Still, she was his queen now, given to him by fate’s mysterious hand. Neither his love nor his most cherished person but his duty and obligation.

He had no desire to have her and yet he married her to legitimize his brothers’ claim over her father’s fallen kingdom. Moons have passed since their marriage day and yet he did not bed her. And save for that moment before her father’s execution, he never spoke to her again, mayhap even forgotten her.

But upon seeing Ivar and Hvitserk together with Vigrid guarding them both at the background, Sigurd’s anger was enflamed and he was forced to remember his wife once again. With immense jealousy in his heart, he came to her one morning as she strolled on her brother’s flower garden.

As he tried to approach her, he noticed his old pride coming to him, that same pride that had always prevented him from saying his feelings for his little brother. And he ultimately realized that this pride was no ordinary pride, for it was laced with great fear, the fear of rejection.

For he had been rejected all his life, first by his mother, then his father, then by everyone else. His ascent to kingship only happened when all his brothers rejected the throne.

For years, he denied this truth for it was very painful to face it.

In the sea of grief he found himself in, that small voice on Sigurd’s head spoke once more, taunting him, ‘ _Coward. Your fear won’t kill you if you swallow it. Are you not a king? Have you no pride for your heritage that one Saxon woman would make you cower? Be a man and do your duty, you stupid fool._ ’

And for the first time in his life, he heeded that old voice. For he realized that his previous decision to ignore that voice was the cause of his present misery. Ivar was out of his reach but Blaeja was. She was his queen now and it was his duty to be with her and sire heirs.

And so, he stepped forward and said unto her, “Greetings, dear wife.”

And as she turned to face him, she fell onto the ground, so startled was she. And with that, Sigurd remembered how Ivar fell off of his chair that day before the Great Army sacked the Northumbrian capital.

But unlike Ivar, Blaeja had no Vigrid by her side to catch her. And so, before she could dive face down into the thorny rosebush, Sigurd caught her in his arms and said, “Careful or your face might become a beehive, you silly woman.”

In that moment, he chastised himself inwardly once more, for his tongue was too sharp and this was what drove so many people away from him, men and women alike.

But to his great surprise, his wife merely laughed at his words, very much like Ivar. And she said unto him, “True, silly me indeed. Thank you for catching me, not-so-silly man.”

And as she stood once more and looked into him with a familiar twinkle in her eyes, he was reminded of those years long gone when he was young and he and Ivar played their unspoken game. This time, he would not run away. He may not have the same feelings for her the same way he had for his brother, but this was how it all started. This time, he would make things right.

And so, he said unto her, “You’re not that silly.” And when she only smiled at him, he continued, “It’s been a while since we saw each other. Forgive me. I was busy with my brothers’ affairs.”

“You are forgiven,” said she with a slight bow. “I was in mourning as well and I do wish to thank you for respecting that.”

A small silence sat between them and she looked at him intently. Sigurd didn’t know what to make of that. But he was no longer the same as he once was, no longer a boy in puberty who would blush under scrutiny, and so he met her gaze. And then she said, “You are not like any of your brothers, are you?”

Sigurd frowned a bit to that and said, “What makes you say so?”

“You don’t frighten me,” Blaeja said honestly.

Sigurd was a bit angry at that, for how dare she imply that Ivar was frightening?

But she carried on by saying, “Beorn, Ubba and Halfdene are fighters. My mother calls them demons for I told her how they were the ones who nailed father into a cross and carved the eagle on his back. But Hyngwar is the most frightening of all for he commands them, just like how Lucifer commands all other demons.”

Sigurd blinked to that, for he knew that very same thing. Ivar was the youngest son but he is the one everyone obeys. And he was very much amused at her audacity, for he hadn’t heard anyone candidly describe such fact, not his brothers, not his father or mother, not their soldiers or any Dane, let alone a Saxon.

But he understood not what a demon is, nor did he know who or what is a Lucifer. Nonetheless, hedismissed the query on his mind and instead asked, “So if my brother Hyngwar is a Lucifer and our older brothers are demons, what am I?”

And Blaeja looked at him intently before answering, “You look too kind to be a demon and yet you fight on their side. So perhaps you’re a lost angel hovering on the void between Heaven and Hell.”

Upon hearing that, Sigurd smiled, quite pleased with her words. For he knew of Hel, the realm of the dead with summer all year round abounding with fruits, mead and meat for everybody.

Some parts of the realm were said to hold the oathbreakers, lawbreakers, and criminals at bay, a wasteland of eternal winter filled with enormous snakes, spawn of the Midgard Serpent. But even they have the chance at eternal happiness if they so choose. For choosing to rot on the depths was the prerogative of the lazy. Anyone who had the will to stand and walk on the serpents’ path will enjoy the bounty waiting on the other side. Such was the generosity of the Goddess Hel.

For Blaeja to speak of the Goddess’ name and realm, Sigurd was surprised at her knowledge of such. And unlike other women, she had no fear of him, was not repulsed by his sharp nature, and even called him kind. Although he knew not what an angel was.

And so he asked her and she answered, and then she asked him of his life in Denmark and he answered.

They walked through the gardens under the sun’s warm light, their path suffused with the sweet smell of blooming flowers. And as a sudden rain fell upon the both of them, they ran together into the castle, their laughter ringing throughout the halls.

For the first time in his life, Sigurd felt an immense happiness, not the one he wished for but a happiness most certainly welcome in his lonely world. For in Blaeja’s eyes, he was no more the fourth son forgotten by everyone. He was her king and her savior, the one who gave back her dignity by making her his wife, the one who gave her father a chance to have an honorable death and the one whose hand appointed her brother as king.

He was her hero, a man who chose to befriend instead of ravishing her the way most conquerors did to the daughters of a conquered land. And so, he allowed her gentle hands to pull him towards her chamber.

But before they reached the stairway, he met those wide blue eyes looking upon him with an unreadable gaze. Sigurd’s heart started to flutter once more, but this time, he had no time to contemplate on his feelings. For Blaeja’s pull was replete with promises of a beautiful life, something he had always thought was unreachable to someone like him.

And so, Sigurd turned away from Ivar even as the guilt started to seep into him. For he was reminded once more of how he abandoned his little brother many times before, of how his pretence at hatred drove a wedge between them that shouldn’t have been there. But the past was gone and over and he no longer had the chance to repair what he had broken with his own hands.

Thus, he ascended with her and left him there. Fate had spoken. Blaeja was his only choice, his only chance at carving out a future of his own. She was his destiny and no one else.

It was an unexpectedly stormy night, seemingly like the unholy nights of fear devastating the English lands before the first Vikingr’s raid on Lindisfarne. And yet despite the heavenly mayhem, Sigurd’s countenance was peaceful for his heart was now hard in its resolve.

He looked upon his wife, now drying her hair. And as he gazed upon her intently, he sensed the fear in her, the apprehension as she sat on the bed. As she turned to him with an awkward smile, Sigurd was once more reminded of his little brother when he was fifteen and inexperienced, of how Hvitserk coaxed him to open up. And as Sigurd remembered his own jealousy upon what he saw many years ago, he now understood that he had no one to blame but himself, for his courage was lacking.

This time, he would make things right, not with Ivar perhaps but with himself.

And so, he sat closer to her, studying her startled gasp upon feeling the dip on the mattress beside her. And he said unto her, “You need not fear, my darling. It is only me.”

Blaeja swallowed a little and then let out a relieved laugh, for wasn’t he her husband and her friend? And so, she looked up at him, trusting him completely.

As their eyes met, Sigurd noticed for the first time how wide and blue her eyes were, how her hair fell upon her shoulders like a dark curtain against the whiteness of her skin. And before he could retract his hand, he had already pressed his palm on her neck, his forefinger caressing her cheek. And he smiled to that, for how silly of him not to notice the slight resemblance between her and his brother. This would not be difficult.

When he pressed his lips against her, he closed his eyes and thought of him, of how he would have expressed his love that respected not the bounds of man’s honor. But with her, he needed not to restrain himself for she was a woman.

And so, unlike that one night he shared with his brother, he did what he wanted to do, for there was no penalty when such deed is done with one’s wife. And unlike the night he had with Ivar, there was no Hvitserk watching his every move – it’s just him and Blaeja, no one else.

He wasn’t gentle with her any more than he was gentle with Ivar, for such was not in his nature. He ripped out her nightgown much to her initial fear, and later, amusement. His hands travelled down, cupped her breasts and felt the soft, silky expanse of her skin, and then further down into her sex. And when she slowly opened up to him, he wasted no time in joining their bodies together.

And as he looked into her face flushed with pleasure, a wave of joy washed upon him. For the first time in his life, someone wanted him, welcomed him. This might not be love but this was so much better than everything else that had happened to him.

As they reached the pinnacle together, Sigurd realized that this time, it was Blaeja who saved him.

-

As the newly-established Kingdom of York stabilized, the Great Army moved southwards but it started to split. Bjorn returned to Sweden just as he had told his younger brothers, leaving a sizeable portion of his army to Guthrum. But Bjorn’s son refused to accept his father’s men, giving up the rein of leadership instead to his favorite uncle Halfdan Hvitserk.

Ubbe also left and returned to Frisia, sacking some monasteries along the way. They carried off many of the veiled women supposedly dedicated to the Christ God. Upon hearing of their sisters’ fate, some of the women in another monastery had wounded their faces, causing Ubbe to simply burn them all alive, much to the amusement of his father-in-law Rurik of Dorestad and their Frankish allies.

But the Vikingr’s mission seemed to be far from over, for Ivar directed his armies towards another goal. Sigurd had the choice whether to join the raids or to go home. But he chose to raid for his wife was already with child and travel might be perilous to her and her baby.

And so, he left her on her brother’s fortified castle and told her to wait for him.

Then he rode with his brothers towards their goal, the Kingdom of East Anglia. The Mercian King Burgred was reluctant to let Danes pass through his territory, but his enmity with King Edmund was enough to ally himself with the barbarians he hated.

As they traversed the forested lands, Sigurd subtly glanced at Ivar from time to time, his heart greatly worried. For since enduring the siege at York, his little brother’s eyes had always been blue. Sometimes it grew lighter, sometimes darker, but they remained blue most of the time like those days when he was a small child suffering from his old illness. And as much as Sigurd hated Harbard, now he wished that the charlatan would somehow return, for nobody knew how to take Ivar’s pain away.

On his part, Ivar didn’t show his suffering to anyone, his face remaining calm and collected. And upon beholding such sight, Sigurd greatly regretted the many years he wasted, the many words he could have said. But despite his love still lingering within, he had already resolved to bury his feelings away. He could only be a elder brother concerned over his little brother’s health, nothing more.

And so, Sigurd rode up. Ivar didn’t seem to notice him, his attention focused on the remaining berserkers at the front lines, the greater army at the center, and the companies of shieldmaidens at the flanks bearing their special flags. After a while, he took one of his wooden planks and started to carve some lines, just like the way he did with his very first Vikingrs. When he finished, he returned the piece of wood into his bag and put his knife back on its place under his cloak.

Sigurd rode closely beside him and asked, “You’re still carving that nonsense. What’s that by the way?”

Ivar only smiled gently and said, “Nonsense, just as you said, brother.”

Sigurd snorted to that and pouted, “Fine, don’t tell me.”

Ivar laughed lightly at that. “You might use it against me in the future so I’m not telling you anything.”

And upon hearing that, Sigurd snorted, “So I’m an enemy spying on you now? Very ungrateful of you after using my warriors for your wars. You’ve never changed at all. Once an idiot, always an idiot.”

To his surprise, Ivar laughed out loud, and Sigurd had to blink at that. For this was the first time he made his brother laugh like that. He could feel both embarrassment and joy rising into his cheeks, so he feigned anger and said, “How dare you laugh at me, you disgusting cretin.”

Ivar tried to stifle his laughter and drank the mead on his wineskin to calm himself down. Afterwards, he looked to his brother’s face and said, “You’re so easy to annoy, brother. You’re so adorable when you get angry like that.”

Sigurd did not expect such a response, and so he had to say, “Stop being so pretentious and just answer my question, you boneless worm.”

Still chuckling a little, Ivar took the piece of wood, handed it to Sigurd, and said. “Here, brother. Gaze upon it and you tell me what it means.”

Clearly, the idiot was mocking him, so Sigurd was even more determined to prove his worth. And truly, even if he were to become the butt of a joke, it wouldn’t matter to him. For he would do anything to ease his brother’s pain, if only a little. And so, he took the piece of wood and tried to read the runes carved upon it.

Ivar was looking at him intently, his eyes shining in curiosity and mirth. Sigurd tried his best to interpret the carvings to the best of his ability, and he said,

“Dublin is the main port, York is the jumping spot, Mercia is the connector, East Anglia is the secondary maritime outpost, Dorestad the opening spot to the Frankish territories down to the Holy Roman Empire, Sweden as the connector to the Rus merchant-princes allied with the Byzantine, with Denmark and Norway as the main territories, Zealand and Scania being the prime source of manpower.”

After hearing his older brother’s words, Ivar rode even closer to Sigurd and said, “And? What do you think of it?”

Sigurd nodded and said, “I say that is an ambitious plan. But quite attainable, I daresay.”

“You think so?” Ivar asked.

“Yes,” Sigurd affirmed. “You’ve even accomplished most of it.” And he handed back the piece of wood and said, “I say it’s a fine plan, but it’s the resources and the warriors’ loyalty that you need to check from time to time. That and your ally-kings.”

“True,” Ivar affirmed. “But if this plan is realized, our people would once again reign supreme like those years long ago during the reign of Ivar Vidfamne (Ivar the Wide-Fathoming).”

Hearing that, Sigurd’s countenance softened, for he saw that his little brother was the same dreamer he always was, the same child immersed in Floki’s tales and histories. Now, he truly was on his way to emulate the path of his childhood heroes, to reclaim the North Sea into an empire unparalleled.

“That’s quite a tall order you have on your hands,” Sigurd admitted, “but you’re getting there.” And he looked to his younger brother’s smiling face and said, “You were the runt of the litter. Who knew that you would grow up to become such a conqueror?”

Ivar only laughed gently and said, “I’m only making the most out of my life brother.”

Upon hearing such words, Sigurd felt something cold run down his spine. For he understood that Ivar was quite aware of his own mortality. With an illness such as this, he knew he wouldn’t last very long. But when Sigurd opened his lips to comfort his little brother, Ivar said, “My epithet would mostly confuse those who hear my tales. They would ask, ‘What does Beinlausi (Boneless) mean?’”

“Impotent, maybe,” Hvitserk cut in, riding up. Sigurd didn’t have to make way for Hvitserk had ridden to Ivar’s right, not the left.

Upon hearing that, Ivar laughed loudly and said, “How could you say such a thing, brother? You of all people know that I’m nothing but that.”

Hvitserk subtly looked to Sigurd and said, “Well, that’s only to deter any competition trying to get in my way. If all people think you are impotent, no one will try to seduce you.”

At that, Sigurd raised an eyebrow, quite amused that Hvitserk seemed to be directly addressing him now, very displeased with his behavior.

But Ivar didn’t seem to understand what was happening between his older brothers, and he tilted his head a bit to that and laughingly said, “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“True,” Sigurd affirmed. “Besides, if anyone must be accused of impotence, it is me. For all my brothers had children before me while my seed took a very long time to bear fruit.”

And to that, Hvitserk looked to him in surprise. Sigurd met his gaze and sharply continued, “Instead of getting jealous, shouldn’t you congratulate me instead, you snail-brained, airheaded cretin?”

Upon hearing that, Hvitserk’s lips stretched into a smile and he nodded in acquiescence. “Forgive me, brother. I am only a fool who thinks with my cock and not my brain.”

Sigurd rolled his eyes and exclaimed, “Hmph! How unfitting for a king to grovel like that.”

Hvitserk only laughed in response.

As they came nearer to Burgred’s capital, Sigurd glanced at his brothers from time to time. Hvitserk seemed to be more relaxed, more like usual cheerful self. And yet Ivar seemed more pensive but not due to the pain of his illness.

If he were the same Sigurd as he was before, he would have tried to sneak around and spy on his brother. But he had now resolved to devote himself to his wife and the new family he was building. And so Sigurd simply left his little brother be.

For he had resolved to truly move on with his life. This was but one of the many steps he must take to completely bury his love forever.

-

_tbc_


	10. Chapter 10

When the Great Army approached the East Anglian border, there was a slight tension among the Danes. For the Angles were already upon the realm’s entrance, all fully armed and seemingly ready for battle. Leading them was their king, Edmund son of Aethelweard, whose bearing was both humble and proud, jolly and sullen. For he beheld the Vikingrs with a confusing countenance of both joy and regret, and perhaps guilt.

Sigurd knew not what to make of it, for his brothers told him nothing of the plans.

 _As usual,_ he thought angrily.

Also, his spies have not yet reported to him. He knew not how to penetrate such battle formation as well, for the Angles had filled almost every point of entry with cavalrymen and foot soldiers. In a distance were the realm’s famous archers, longbows at the ready. From experience, he discerned that this line of defense was impossible to breach.

To his surprise, Ivar was calm as usual and simply rode up to meet them, flanked by his shieldmaidens and berserkers. As was customary, Vigrid rode ahead of his king and proclaimed,

“Hail Edmund! Honorable King of East Anglia, we bring peace unto you and to your people.”

Unlike the Northumbrians who beheld the Danes with both fear and awe, the Angles seemed to heed not his words, for the lancers held their weapons even tighter than before and the cavalrymen’s faces were cold as snow.

Not to be deterred, Vigrid continued, “I present unto you my king, Ivar son of Ragnar, who rides into your realm to collect the gold as you promised.”

Upon hearing such words, Edmund raised his hand and the archers picked up their arrows and pulled their bows taut, ready to fire.

Sigurd was taken aback at such display and his teeth gritted in his anger at such treachery. But when he looked to the side, he found that there was no need for such worries. For Guthrum’s archers were at the ready as well, their arrows prepared to pierce the Angle king himself at any given moment.

Seeing such readiness on the Danes’ side, Edmund forced a smile onto his face, rode up to the Great Army’s leader, and said unto him,

“Yngvar, my dearest friend, I am deeply happy for your visit. And yet I regret to inform you that my people cannot bear the burden of this payment. For the crops have only yielded so much as to feed my subjects. What gold we have is needed for the purchase of winter supplies, what silver left is for the maintenance of the army and their poor, starving families. Thus, I humbly beg your forgiveness and shamelessly request your benevolence to accept what Danegeld we could spare, a quarter of what was promised, nothing more.”

At the side, Halfdan Hvitserk laughed bitterly. It was as though he had expected the Angle King to renege on his promise. But Sigurd saw that his older brother showed no further signs of aggression. As always, he allowed their youngest brother to speak for the Great Army.

On his part, Ivar only smiled gently and replied,

“Such were not the words you said when you were in need of my Vikingrs. They fought for you and drove the Mercians away from your lands. Some of them were gravely injured protecting you and your citizens. And their families need sustenance too, just like your people. We are human too and in need of food, drink and winter supplies. We are not mere swords, my dear king.”

And when King Edmund seemed at a loss, taken aback by such words, Ivar only softly nodded in seeming thoughtfulness and continued,

“But I do understand your predicament. My heart commends you for choosing your people’s welfare above everything else. For a truly virtuous king thinks of his subjects above all else, just like how a father foregoes his own food and gives it to his children. Thus, I accept whatever Danegeld you can give. I admit this is not the entire price you promised, but I make peace with it.”

Upon hearing that, Edmund deeply sighed, quite remorseful but also relieved. Sigurd surmised that the Angle king bemoaned going back on his word, and yet his resolve was deeply set no matter his regrets.

And so, a cart full of gold was given and Ivar accepted it. Upon their receipt of such, the Angles withdrew their bows and the Danes did the same. Sigurd rolled his eyes angrily, his fists clenched. He wanted to tell Ivar how cowardly his acceptance seemed to be. For they could have simply attacked that damned Edmund and his filthy Angles, stomped down on their kingdom, enslaved their people, and be done with it.

But before Sigurd could sputter his insults, Halfdan Hvitserk smilingly said, “Didn’t I tell you, brother? These cretins are the same.”

Surprised, Sigurd turned to his older brother. Ignoring him, Hvitserk carried on, “They bait us with promises of plenty but never stay true to their word. That was how our father was treacherously used and then murdered. Never treaty with them again, for these fools deserve not our words. They only deserve one thing and you know what it is.”

When Sigurd turned to his younger brother, he saw Ivar sigh softly and then said, “You’re right. I was fain to make peace, for how could we hold these lands in perpetuity if we are at odds with the people therein?”

And Ivar sighed once more and further said, “But I was wrong. Gaining the hearts of these people must be duly noted in time, but these Saxons and Angles are not the ones we must win over. Our own people must come first before anything and anyone else.”

“And that is what you must always bear in mind,” Hvitserk said, his tone harsh and grating. “We look only after our own. Everyone else can burn to the ground for all we care. The moment we start to think of these outsiders’ welfare, our people will lose and lose most horribly. For our love must remain only for our kin. Everyone else is an enemy. Never forget that.”

At that moment, their spies arrived. Along with them was a small band of warriors led by an incredibly tall fellow that looked more Norwegian than Dane. Sigurd recognized him as one of youngest earls serving under Guthrum, but the youth’s name escaped his memory. And upon his overlord’s gesture, the earl said,

“King Edmund has not disbanded the soldiers at the border, but he and his royal guard are off to a Christian church to say their prayers.”

Sigurd frowned at such unnecessary information and bellowed, “Forget the useless church and their intrepid prayers. Just say what you have to say, you gigantic lump!”

The earl huffed angrily but carried on, “That _useless_ church is located near one of our headquarters’ entrances.”

Ivar’s eyes twinkled at that, quite amused by their exchange and asked, “Have you any information on the position of their archers?”

“Yes, I have,” said the giant, his previous anger cooled by Ivar’s calm. “They are concentrated on the entrances both in the cliffs and in the waterways. But my winter post in Thedford remains out of their range. Near a shallow river therein is the entrance to a cave network that passes through different realms. If we use it as a starting point, we can enter the heart of East Anglia without the enemy’s knowledge.”

Upon hearing that, Sigurd turned to his brothers, smirked and said, “What are we waiting for?”

But Ivar shook his head with a smile and then said, “No. The glory of battle is everyone’s destiny, not just for kings.” And to the young earl, he asked, “What is your name?”

“Hrolfr, son of Kjetill,” answered the youth. And perhaps trying hard not to look too brusque, he tucked a stray clump of golden hair behind his ear, bowed lightly to Ivar, his eyes darting towards Guthrum, and added, “My king.”

Ivar laughed lightly to that, quite amused, and then turned towards the rest of the warriors. And by doing so, he saw the disappointment upon their faces, the rage just brewing below the surface, for the Vikingrs had expected the full price of East Anglia’s Danegeld. And to that Sigurd was alarmed, for the warriors’ anger could be well directed towards their leader, the one who had cut short their dreams of great treasure by accepting Edmund’s short-changed gold.

But to his greatest surprise, Ivar gently smiled, pleased at what he saw. Sigurd knew not what to expect any longer and could only look on as his younger brother rode towards the Vikingrs and spoke,

“My dear warriors, hearken to me.”

And when the Vikingrs looked upon him in disgruntled attention, Ivar continued, “As you have seen earlier, East Anglia has betrayed our treaty and deprived us of our rightful payment. Such ingrates needed to be taught a lesson, don’t you think?”

To that, one of the Norwegians shouted, “Teach them a lesson!”

“Make the ingrates pay!” yelled the others in unison.

“Yes, yes, we shall make them pay and pay in blood,” Ivar affirmed, his eyes sparkling, for he had successfully redirected the warriors’ anger back to the enemy. “We shall also take their gold, of course,” he added in jest, making the warriors chuckle. “But all the treasures we can loot within their realm are merely small trinkets. For the true prize is their land.”

And seeing the warriors in rapt attention, he continued, “We shall take their territory for permanent settlement. Thus, all free warriors who manage to occupy a castle shall retain ownership of such with no regard for status or rank. Any slave warrior who survives this battle shall be freed immediately and be entitled of his or her loot may it be land or treasure.”

At that, the lowliest of the Vikingrs were suddenly reinvigorated. For this was an opportunity unparalleled for them. Never before has a king offered them this chance, thus their loyalty and enthusiasm was stronger than ever before.

To encourage them further, Ivar continued with feeling, “There is no distinction between us. Free or slave, male or female, we are all one blood, one people, one nation. We speak the same tongue and worship the same Gods. We suffer the same injustices and prejudice at the hands of these foreigners. They mock us and betray us at every turn after using us for their gain, for we are not human in their eyes.”

Sigurd felt cold sweat forming in his brow, for he could clearly see that the warriors were listening intently. Somehow, he understood where this was going and he couldn’t help the fear rising from within.

“And so, we shall regard them the way they regard us!” Ivar told them.

“Aye!” the warriors responded, their eyes full of righteous candor.

“This attack shall be unlike any of the previous battles we have partaken in,” Ivar continued. “For we will uproot the East Anglian scum off the face of the earth and burn them all to the ground until there is nothing left of them. There will be no slaves, no prisoners, no captives for we shall slaughter them all. Show no mercy!”

“No mercy!” affirmed the warriors in unison, raising their weapons in mirth.

“Kill them all!” the shieldmaidens shouted which was repeated over and over until the Vikingrs’ bloodlust were satisfied.

Upon hearing such words, Sigurd was quite horrified, for this meant that even women and children will be slain. Despite the Danish blood flowing through his veins, he could not help but feel fear for the Angles. For unlike the Irish who meant nothing to him, the Anglo-Saxons made him feel some semblance of empathy. For his heart remembered his English queen waiting for him in the Northumbrian realm. He could only imagine how terrifying this must be for her, to hear of her husband now ready to butcher her own kinsmen.

And yet when he looked upon the Vikingrs, nobody seemed to bat an eye or showed any signs of guilt, not even the newly-made earls who wedded Saxon brides. For it was obvious that they were now very tired of the betrayal upon betrayal thrust onto them within these lands. And more than that, the complete annihilation of the Angles will offer them a chance to carve out new earldoms and expand to wherever they desire, fully unencumbered by these traitorous Anglo-Saxons and their two-faced kings.

Upon seeing the warriors’ eyes shining with ardour for their just cause, Ivar carried on by saying, “There is only one thing I ask of you – to spare the life of the Angle king and capture him alive. For I have a special plan for that traitor.”

The warriors chuckled to that, quite excited to see Edmund’s impending doom.

“And to you, my brave earls, with whose support made our revenge even sweeter,” Ivar continued, “any one of you who takes the king’s castle shall have a very special reward. For you shall be crowned new King of East Anglia.”

To that, the earls raised their swords and roared merrily in anticipation. For it was quite clear that some of them had their own ambitions to fulfill, and what an opportunity this was!

Sweeping his eyes on everyone, Ivar smiled gently, for his goal was achieved. And so, under his leadership, the Great Army marched once more, this time towards the heart of Angle-lands.

In his own silent place, Sigurd couldn’t help but secretly shudder. For Ivar proved to be an incredible manipulator, able to move the hearts and minds of people, their desires and their anger, all in service of his goals. He had always known of his brother’s proclivities, but never had it been clearer to him than now.

Ivar seemed to do right by their people, because in the face of foreign foes, Vikingrs can rely only on kinship. For the bonds of blood are lasting and eternal; everything else seemed fleeting and fickle. But Sigurd knew better, knew that his younger brother was merely using such sentiments for himself and himself alone.

Even Hvitserk was being used in service of achieving Ivar’s dreams, their love now seemingly becoming an afterthought. But their older brother seemed not to mind his position for he benefitted greatly from it – now he was King of York to whom even Christian kings paid homage. Such was the reward for allowing himself to be his little brother’s tool for conquest.

The more he thought about it, the more Sigurd’s heart fell into despair. And at that moment, he started to long for home. For it seemed to him that being on foreign soil had tainted his brothers and his people. These warmer lands gave greater yield for the crops but it also polluted one’s being. It could give no true peace or harmony of the mind. In contrast, the Danish homeland might be cold and harsh and unforgiving, but being connected to the land of their birth gave a semblance of being purged of all impurities, a catharsis within one’s being, the feeling of being cleansed and renewed over and over again.

There was nothing left for him here, Sigurd surmised. For the Ivar he remembered and loved was no more than a memory. This new Ivar was a conqueror who loves nothing and cares for nothing other than achieving his dreams of glory, a ruler who gauges people in accordance to their usefulness and, mayhap, will eliminate those who are of no use to him or pose as a threat to his power.

And at that last thought, Sigurd started to think of preserving his own kingship, of his own heirs succeeding him in Denmark’s throne. Thus he decided – he must leave as soon as Blaeja recovers from their child’s incoming birth. For he finally realized that building a legacy has more weight than chasing the shadows of a love that will never be.

-

At the first break of dawn, columns of thick smoke pushed through the fog covering the East Anglian realm. For the kingdom had fallen completely, their castles and churches sacked for treasure, their villages burnt to the ground.

Those who had the sense to run away had fled in the night and managed to carry their meager belongings with them. Some took refuge in the Mercian boroughs, others fled as far as Wessex, and some risked life and limb to sail to the Irish territories despite the bad weather. For they knew that the fate that awaited them, should they remain on their ravaged land, was worse than Hell itself.

True enough, those who were unable to escape were hacked down mercilessly. Men and women were struck down without distinction, both noble and peasant were slain from the oldest grandfather to the littlest babe.

The Angles were caught unprepared for no one had expected the enemy to breach the center first and then take down the unsuspecting border guards from behind. And how steep the price was for such lack of foresight, for the Vikingrs’ bloodlust was only satisfied upon taking English heads with their axes.

When the ransacking had begun to subside, a lone soldier from the royal guard peered atop an oak. He had been there since the first sign of mayhem, silently waiting. For his king had been separated from his company during the chaos, his whereabouts now unknown. But even as his comrades escaped, he chose to remain in the capital disregarding the possibility of forfeiting his life. For his heart compelled him complete his life’s most important mission – to find King Edmund and rescue him from Yngvar’s clutches.

As he surveyed the land with his eyes, he bit his lip both in sorrow and rage. For East Anglia was now decorated with decapitated bodies, holy men and lay people frozen in the embrace of a miserable death.

At last, his vision caught sight of a man being dragged in chains, and lo! It was King Edmund himself, reduced to a man in shackles, dishonored and disgraced, lower than a thrall.

The guard gritted his teeth as hot tears fell down his face, for he well understood that his mission is now forfeit even if he chose to die beside his king. For Edmund was surrounded with a large host of Danish soldiers, all armed and bathed in English blood and with their bloodlust still apparent. And they whipped the king with an unholy glee until he could move no more, his sacred body watering the ground with his blood.

At the orders of their leader Yngvar, the Danes tied the king onto a tree and whipped him soundly once again. The guard closed his eyes unable to watch, his hands trembling as he clutched the branches. And yet he could hear of what was transpiring – of bows being stretched, of arrows being released piercing the king’s flesh amid the laughter of the demonic host circling him therein.

And yet despite the semblance of the hellspawn’s victory, the king’s voice started to rise. The English soldier opened his eyes once more, hope seeping back into his heart. For King Edmund, in his death throes, had started to utter a Latin prayer, not for his own deliverance but for the safety of his people and, most surprisingly, for the Lord’s mercy towards his own murderers.

Yngvar and his brothers strained their ears to hear but failed to listen; they looked but failed to see; they thought but failed to understand. But the soldier atop the tree uttered that same prayer to aid his king at that final moment.

At last tired of their fun, Yngvar took his axe and hurled it fast and strong, and thus, King Edmund’s head finally fell onto the ground.

The soldier clutched his hand over his heart, his tears freely flowing. And yet despite the overwhelming grief numbing him, the Lord, in his boundless mercy, granted him strength of body and presence of mind. And so, he carefully climbed down from his hiding place and followed the trail towards the forest whence the king’s head was thrown. In spite of the thick fog and lack of sufficient sunlight, his steps were guided by the Divine and he found the king’s head with ease.

When he finally reached the other side, there were his comrades waiting – members of the royal guard and remnants of the Witan itself, some lower nobles, priests and nuns, the bishop himself, and many of their people who survived the onslaught.

Upon seeing the king’s head in his arms, they fell onto the ground beating their breasts in utmost regret. For they knew that the king’s demise was their own doing.

For never did Edmund son of Aethelweard forsake his word and his virtue until he was convinced by his own people to do so. And in abandoning his honor, the price was the king’s own life and the entirety of the realm itself.

Wiping away his tears, the bishop came forward and asked, “Pray tell us his last words?”

And the soldier replied,

“ _Pater, dimitte illis, quia nescuint, quid faciunt.”_

_Father, forgive them, for they know not what they are doing._

-

As the word spread of East Anglia’s fall, so did the Vikingrs of the Great Army spread on the realm and divided the conquered land amongst themselves. True to his promise, Ivarr Beinlausi granted them everything they have taken, including the people they have stubbornly spared, particularly the Angle beauties that some lusty warriors refused to slaughter and the artisans whose skills were fancied by the earls, such exquisite additions to their newly-ennobled households.

Indeed, Ragnar’s sons did not care much about the survivors of their attack so long as they posed no semblance of revolt against their authority. The only contention therein was who should be installed as next king of the Angle-lands for there was one earl who managed to besiege Edmund’s residence for himself. But he was an unexpected candidate for he was not one of Ragnar Lothbrok’s progeny.

Hrolfr Kjetillsson swallowed hard, weighing in his mind whether or not he should press his claim. His Vikingrs looked upon him expectantly, so thrilled and proud were they at the prospect of their own beloved earl becoming king.

And yet, he understood that look in the eyes of Ivarr Ragnarsson, the subtle hint of his hands calmly fingering the blade of the axe that had just taken Edmund’s head with one stroke, that subtle smile upon his lips as his blue eyes twinkled, as if daring Hrolfr to do as he pleased regardless of his impending doom, challenging him to jump into Mimir’s well while knowing the penalty that awaited a man with such foolishness.

When he turned to Halfdan Hvitserk, he was met with a coldness that he could not stand, for it was quite clear that Halfdan was Ivarr’s shield and pillar of support, one whose interests were tied to Ivarr’s so intimately that it cannot be severed. And he dared not turn to Sigurd with the Snake in the Eye, the most insufferable of the three Danish kings, for he knew that his plea would only be met with ridicule and sharp words of disdain.

The Norwegian leader looked around once again and he saw how weak his army was when it stands alone, how fragile and delicate, as dainty as one rosebud amidst hundreds, nay thousands, of blooming flowers. And he knew that in order for his small contingent to truly live to its full potential, it would have to be guarded from any hostile power until such time that it can assert its own dominance. Thus, he understood what he must do to protect his own people – to show a semblance of submission to Ivarr’s rule. But he would be damned if he contributed to the further growth of Beinlausi’s power.

And so, he turned to his young overlord Guthrum, took in the familiar calmness in those quiet green eyes, the comforting warmth of his face adorned with long braids as red as fully-bloomed roses. Looking upon his lord, Hrolfr saw a semblance of hope no matter how small and fleeting, and thus he made his decision.

Illuminated by the golden afternoon sun and surrounded by the divine host of Valhalla that was the Great Army, Hrolfr stepped towards Ironside’s valiant firstborn, knelt to him in a silent plea, and said the words,

“Whatever my claim, I renounce onto you, my Lord Guthrum, dearest, most cherished and most beloved of Kings. For this kingdom and its treasures I do not desire; I wish for nothing else but your favor and your protection. Thus, I swear to you my love and my loyalty, this remain till my life ends. May the Gods bear witness to my vow.”

And he took Guthrum’s hand and brought it to his lips.

As he did so, Ivarr’s smile was no longer as menacing as before, his eyes retaining only an amused sparkle. There was an uncharacteristic pity on Halfdan’s face and weariness on Sigurd’s. But to Hrolfr, the most important of all was Guthrum’s word spoken thus,

“I accept your loyalty, Hrolfr son of Kjetill. However, I cannot deprive you of your rightful claim.”

To that, Hrolfr’s hold on his overlord’s hand involuntarily tightened. Thankfully, Guthrum understood his difficult circumstance and continued,

“Thus, though I accept your surrender of this castle and crown, all the treasures you and your warriors have taken shall remain in your rightful ownership. For benevolence duly begets benevolence, loyalty with loyalty, and love repaid in love.”

Upon hearing that, Hrolfr’s warriors looked to Guthrum in a wordless gesture of gratitude. And when their earl rose to stand once more among them, they raised their swords and axes in mirth, for their lord proved to be an able leader despite his youth. They hailed him amidst cheers of pride and congratulations.

And in their own tiny corner, three of his shieldmaidens, in tune with the berserkers who sounded their drums and lutes, sang of their noble earl – of Hrolfr the Walker, only nineteen summers young, but so big and so tall no horse could carry him, a youth blessed by the Gods, as strong and wise as Odin’s own begotten son, proud and resilient as the magnificent sky overlooking the earth, the perfect likeness of Thor on Midgard.

But as the festivities commenced on, his most trusted commander pulled him aside and whispered into his ear,

“That was a prudent move, my Lord. I was so anxious that I held my breath the entire time. But you were in the right for endeavouring not to antagonize Ragnar Lothbrok’s sons.”

Hrolfr nodded to that then quietly replied,

“Guthrum was kind enough to let us live, but who knows when his heart will change? Thus, make haste, my man, and tell our priest to divine the omens. We must leave this land as soon as we are able. Ready our ships in secret for we must set sail to Frankia. There is no longer a place for us here.”

-

That winter’s end, as he looked upon the melting snow upon York’s fortified ramparts, Sigurd received the news – his wife had birthed twins, a boy and a girl. And when he rode hastily to see them, there was an unexplainable happiness welling within him, something he had never felt before. For he had become a father just like his brothers, his legacy now as bright as their own.

Finally, when he arrived at the Northumbrian king’s castle, he set his eyes upon the newborn babes. As he did so, not even his stubborn pride could stop his tears from falling, so overcome with feeling was he. And as though she felt that indescribable sentiment too, Blaeja shed tears of joy as well, for her heart was filled with so much love. And when he kissed her, he felt so complete. With her by his side, the world had become brighter, happier and more beautiful.

Like fire burning through the winter was she, warming his heart previously frozen by years of loneliness and unrequited longing. Now, he felt as though he was half-thawed, his heart still half-filled with his old bitterness and yet able to feel pure joy once more. And though he still doubted whether or not he deserved her affections, he still thanked the Gods for giving her to him, the perfect friend and lover he never expected, his other half. She was his bride, his queen, and now the mother of his children.

When he finally regained his bearings, he wiped away his tears and asked her, “Have you named them?”

“No,” she replied, “for I felt that you have more authority to do so, being their father.” And upon seeing the puzzled look on his face, she smiled and said, “I want them to be like your people, to bear the names of those blessed by the True Gods, the people of the Old Gods. I want them to be truly Danish like their father, like my dearest husband.”

Sigurd had to blink back his tears at that. And when he looked to his children once again, he remembered his fleeting dreams of greatness when he was a boy, his yearning for his mother’s love, and so he said, “Harthacanute and Aslaug.”

To that, Blaeja nodded and said, “And so they shall be called henceforth.”

Her mother, who had been looking upon them at the side, said unto her, “Shall we prepare for their christening?”

And Blaeja answered, “No. Their father believes in the Old Gods and so should they.”

Sigurd looked to her still astonished at his good fortune. And with a smile, he said unto her, “But their mother is a Christian and so should they be.”

His wife turned to him, seemingly surprised by his words, and so he continued, “Besides, this Christ God you have, isn’t he Tyr just renamed? I saw his cross and concluded thus. The Gods aren’t jealous of the affections of mere humans. For what is one God to be added beside them?”

Blaeja’s mother smiled to that, nonchalantly shrugging, for such was her opinion as well. And as his mother-in-law went to inform the bishop of such, Sigurd embraced his new family once more, his heart basking in their warmth.

The moment was cut short however when one of his men arrived bearing the words,

“Good tidings, my King. Your brothers Ivar and Halfdan send you and your wife their congratulations and also this news – the Great Army is marching towards the Kingdom of Wessex to raid. Your brother Ubbe has also returned to aid them in this endeavour. And now they are inviting you to raid with them as well. What are we to answer?”

Sigurd already knew of the plans despite not being informed, for since the sack of East Anglia, he had started to plant his own spies among his brothers’ warriors. He also knew that Blaeja was not fit for travel yet and so he replied,

“Tell my brothers this – I shall raid with you but on my own terms. My warriors must stay at the tail of the army fully independent and unencumbered. I swear to the Gods that we will defend our position with our lives. But we shall only raid in this position. If they agree, so shall I and my Vikingrs raid with them. If not, then I have no choice but to decline.”

The warrior looked upon his king, a mystified but somewhat proud look on his face. But no matter his feelings on the matter, he merely bowed to his king and did as he was commanded.

Sigurd looked upon his wife once more, nursing their newborns. And thus was his resolve strengthened once again. No more shall he follow his brother’s conquests for territory. For his new focus was to accumulate as much treasures as can be had and store it in the northern homeland, all for the sake of his heirs and their heirs after them, all to build a new legacy worthy of Ragnar Lothbrok’s name.

The Great Army marched once again, this time to the ever-elusive Kingdom of Wessex. At its front were their commanders Ubbe, Guthrum and Halfdan Hvitserk together with Ivar astride his dark horse.

Sigurd stayed at the rear seemingly awaiting his brothers’ signal, but in reality he knew what to expect. Thus, he was on alert, waiting for any subtle changes on the terrain as well as on the massive army at his front, all the while monitoring the goings-on of his spies both entering and exiting the ranks of the Great Army and of the soldiers of Wessex itself.

Upon noting the sun’s position on the sky, he nodded to his commander on the right, and his warrior raised a black banner. Seeing that, the Vikingrs unsheathed their swords and gripped their axes tightly, readying themselves for what was to come.

And as Sigurd expected, the Saxon king Aethelred climbed on the rampart and shouted,

“Hyngwar, you son of the Devil! Tell your host of demons to retreat this instant. For you well know that your pathetic army is no match for my warriors. Advance onto us and we will burn you all alive as it befits you, you filthy, illiterate pagan scum!”

As expected, Ivar merely laughed and replied,

“Oh Aethelred, why not take your own advice for yourself? You are greatly outnumbered and are surrounded. Why not open the gates and enjoy our generosity? I assure you, my warriors and I will greatly satisfy your women more than you could ever imagine. We will satisfy you as well, if you so desire.”

Upon hearing such, Aethelred grew red in the face and sputtered more of his meaningless insults much to the roaring laughter of the Danes below.

But Sigurd knew better – knew that this ‘Aethelred’ wasn’t the true one. For this man on the rampart was Prince Alfred who had merely put the king’s garb in disguise. And so, as his regiment took their positions, Sigurd directed his archers to aim not at the ‘king’ on the rampart but the one on horseback outside the walls.

“Loose!”

But just as the arrows flew to take the Saxon king, Aethelred was shielded by the bishop who used his own body as the king’s shield. As he saw the bishop’s sacrifice followed by his brother’s battle cry, Alfred then realized that his pretense no longer worked. With a mere rope on his hand, he jumped down the rampart to aid his king.

The ensuing battle was unexpectedly fierce for the Saxons’ desperation showed through quite clearly. The wounded bishop kept fighting and what a fighter he was! As ferocious as a berserker on holy trance. And despite the many arrows sticking out from his back and legs, he railed onto the Danes with an unprecedented vigor striking down numerous Vikingrs as he went. The Saxon prince was just as fierce as he duelled with Ubbe, their strength proving to be equal, parrying and striking with great intensity.

On his part, Aethelred looked upon his surroundings, calm as a leaf in the wind, his mind contemplating. And perhaps seeing that the time is right, he had a blue banner raised. At that signal, a new band of Saxons emerged from the forest at the left, consuming Guthrum’s warriors with gusto. And upon seeing his task done at that portion, he turned his eyes to the back.

Sigurd’s eyes locked with the Saxon king, holding his gaze for a moment. And in that instant, he realized that he was the next target. His warriors braced themselves but were a little relaxed, knowing that the enemy must first breach Ivar and Hvitserk’s regiments. But to his surprise, his brothers’ warriors merely opened their ranks and allowed the Saxons to pass.

His heart started to race, his breath hitching in tandem, as he readied himself for the enemy’s cavalry galloping forward. And yet when he looked to his right, his eyes made out the faintest shadow of another band of Saxon warriors therein. There and then, it was made clear to him that the information he had taken was incomplete, or perhaps deliberately given out to mislead them.

For in this battle, it was not the Saxons who were surrounded but the Danes – and they were about to be defeated. He still could not fathom the reason why his brother allowed the enemy to pass through. But Ivar had always been unfathomable, Sigurd surmised, thus there was no reason to think more of his actions.

In that decisive moment, Sigurd composed himself and yelled to his Vikingrs, “Shield wall!”

Like an organism of one mind, his fighters followed their king’s command and they managed to meld together into their formidable formation with no warrior left behind or slain. And he commanded them once more, “Forward march!”

Seeing his infantry now locked in battle, shield wall crunching, with the pikes, swords and axes piercing the enemy soldiers and their horses, he hollered to the ones further back, “Archers, ready!”

And he pulled the reins of his horse, his eyes carefully surveying the battlefield. The shield wall was breached in a few places but they managed to slaughter a sizable portion of the enemy cavalry and are now massacring the ones who survived, sparing only some of the horses. To the right remained the hidden Saxon army, lying in wait.

To that he raised his hand and hollered to his archers, “Face right!” And when they did so, he yelled, “Fire!”

The surprise was so unmistakeable among the Saxons and many of them lay dead, some falling down from the trees where they scouted. But some of them managed to escape further back. And to that Sigurd felt a chill run down his spine. For he no longer knew how many Saxons were lying in wait in the dark corners all around.

And so, to his warriors, he commanded, “Retreat!”

Without questioning the wisdom behind his words, his Vikingrs retreated alongside him and they rode far, far back until they reached very near the Northumbrian border. Seeing his warriors now exhausted from their running, he bid them to rest a while. But Sigurd did not pause with his efforts for he immediately went to higher ground to survey the land.

To his great anger, he saw portions of the Great Army scattered about, previously lying in wait behind but now facing off with the formidable soldiers of Wessex. And he finally realized the true intent behind his younger brother’s plans – Ivar endeavored to kill Sigurd off and annihilate the main Danish army. For his little brother was clearly attempting to consolidate his power over their people and unite them under his command. To do so, he must eliminate all of his rivals including Sigurd himself.

Not wanting his feelings to get the better of him, Sigurd breathed out his emotions. At that moment, he knew that he must get out of the British lands as soon as possible. He must if he valued his life and that of his wife and children. 

In a few moments, the battle had almost finished, the Saxons now retreating back to their walls and with a portion of the Great Army returning to the path from whence they came.

Upon seeing his little brother march towards him, Sigurd immediately realized the danger looming over him. Thus, he commandeered his own warriors back the Northumbrian king’s castle and then directed everyone to make haste to their boats on the nearby the river system. Blaeja was confused but she questioned not his judgement.

And so, they disappeared into the waves and the fog. From a distance, Sigurd thought he saw his younger brother’s form atop a cliff, seemingly looking out to him in utmost bewilderment.

 _Only feigned_ , Sigurd thought wryly and he truly believed it be so. For Ivar was someone whose word could never be relied upon. Had he not seen him betray his own allies to do his bidding? Was he not a man whose promises were kept or broken depending on its usefulness?

He did not want to think about it, but Sigurd knew of Hrolfr’s sudden disappearance. It was only a matter of time that someone else vanishes too.

As the ships sailed towards the Danish homeland, Sigurd tried to look within himself, see if his love for his younger brother was still there. And to his chagrin, there it was, still blossoming inside him despite the many pains Ivar put him through.

But now, Sigurd’s life was no longer just his own. For his fate would determine the fates of everyone who chose to serve him, those who depended on him – his Vikingrs, the citizens of the northern realm, and most especially his wife, son and daughter. And it angered him to no end that his younger brother would deliberately attempt to harm his warriors, make his wife a widow, and make orphans out of his children. So much for love – his brother was a two-faced traitor incapable of love or sympathy. Hvitserk can suffer him if he wants to; Sigurd no longer wished to have anything to do with him anymore.

-

Only a fortnight had passed when three ships docked on Denmark’s main port. So differently dressed were the Vikingrs therein and most of them seemed too foreign for their homeland even though they still spoke the same language as the rest of their people.

Sigurd sat on the throne with Blaeja on his right and his mother on his left, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword in reflex, his face softening only upon seeing his visitor. For before him, dressed in Frisian finery, stood his brother Ubbe, the one brother he knew he could trust even with his life, for he loved all his younger brothers in equal measure.

Even so, Sigurd’s smile was wary when he said, “Welcome thee, dearest brother mine. How fare you?”

Ubbe gazed upon him thoughtfully, his eyes resting to his younger brother’s hand still gripping the sword’s hilt on his hip, and replied, “I am well, little brother, so are our brothers.”

“I’m very glad to hear that,” Sigurd said but his face said otherwise.

Ubbe must have understood his misgivings for he looked to his younger brother with an unreadable expression on his face. Without words passing between them, he understood his little brother’s heart. And so, he dismissed his own guards despite their protestations. Then he took off the rich cape draped all over him and allowed it to fall on the floor. Next, he undid one of his belts and down fell his swords, axes, knives and other weapons upon his person, even the vial of poison from his pocket. Then he opened his arms and said,

“I come in peace, brother. Hearken to me.”

Sigurd’s grip on his sword tightened all the more and he merely looked to his brother wordlessly telling him to continue.

Ubbe blinked a bit, his face devoid of expression as always. And yet Sigurd felt the pain passing through his brother’s eyes, for he was hurt at his little brother’s obvious mistrust. Even so, he smiled sadly and said,

“Whatever misunderstandings you may have had with our brothers, you can tell me. But this disunity between us must be mended for it benefits no one but our enemies.”

Sigurd laughed bitterly to that, his rage boiling even more, and said, “Alright then. Tell our brothers that I sever all my ties with them. For I cannot fight alongside such traitors who would deliberately have me killed by the enemy.”

“Sigurd!” Aslaug exclaimed in surprise, visibly alarmed at her son’s words.

But he merely waved her off and continued, “It makes me wonder – are the Saxons truly the enemy at this point? For it seems to me that they are far less dangerous than those two you care so much about.”

And Sigurd leaned back, his head tilted a little as he studied the expressions fleeting on Ubbe’s face. There was a semblance of confusion therein, but Sigurd’s heart was too torn by Ivar’s betrayal to even consider his older brother’s intentions. There was no room for anything else for anger had blinded him already.

With a practiced ease, he unsheathed his sword pointed it towards Ubbe’s neck and said, “Know this, brother. My rage is so great that I could kill you right now. If you still wish to talk to me despite that risk, come closer.”

Ubbe opened his lips as if to say something, but he ended up sighing resignedly. And after a brief moment of silence, as though he deliberated the situation, he sighed once more and quietly said, “If that’s what it will take to appease you, I’m willing to give you my everything, including my head.”

And to that he stepped closer unmindful of the sharp sword touching his skin.

Sigurd teeth clenched, his anger still aflame, and he deliberately allowed the blade to lightly graze his brother’s neck until it started to draw blood. But Ubbe simply endured it and walked even closer until he reached the throne. And at that point, Sigurd shifted his sword’s position so that it now drew blood from his brother’s throat, his other hand grasping his brother’s hair at the back of his head quite sharply.

Aslaug was quite horrified at such display and screamed, “Stop this at once! How could you treat your brother this way?”

To that, his eyes still trained hard on Ubbe’s face, Sigurd commanded his warriors, “Escort the Queen and Queen-Mother away, clear this hall, and shut the doors. Do not open for anyone or anything until I command you to do so.”

The warriors stood to obey their king’s orders, and so, the Queen-Mother could do no more but scream at the heavily bolted door. But Sigurd heeded her not for his attention was on his brother.

How the tables have turned. For in their younger years, he always held Ubbe with the highest regard, respected him even more than their own father, their mother, and their firstborn brother. He was someone Sigurd dared not to cross or disobey even at the expense of his own feelings. And now, here he was, lacking all semblance of authority, his life now entirely resting on Sigurd’s hands.

Their eyes remained locked for a long time as Sigurd searched therein for answers. Eventually, he realized that whatever his brothers had schemed against him, Ubbe knew nothing of it. For their older brother’s only purpose was to make peace between them, like the way he always put himself in between to stop their quarrels.

Upon reaching such understanding, Sigurd put down his blade.

And yet for some reason, he couldn’t loosen his grip on Ubbe’s hair. Or more correctly, he wouldn’t. For he had devoted himself to watching his brother, drinking in the way his Ubbe’s eyes fluttered to a close before opening once more, the way his lips parted to let out his usual long-suffering sigh.

At that moment, Sigurd remembered Ivar on that first and final night they spent together, how he sighed softly whenever his brothers touched him, how he closed his eyes as he moaned at the pleasure of being brought to the heights of ecstasy.

To that, Sigurd angrily tugged on Ubbe’s braids, an act his brother probably interpreted as Sigurd being angry with him. In reality however, Sigurd did that to jolt himself awake, for his senses had started to swirl, his longing brought to the surface once again. For his brother’s warm breath and the scent of his skin stirred something from within him, their proximity heating his blood.

And for the life of him, he realized that he never saw his older brother like this before. In his eyes, Ubbe was only his brother and perhaps a second father. But the moment that Ubbe’s gestures started to remind him of Ivar, Sigurd now recognized the sweetness of holding him close, even though his elder brother never responded to his rough touch.

On his part, Ubbe merely looked into Sigurd’s eyes, a little puzzled at the way his younger brother gripped his hair even tighter, the pain becoming more and more unbearable. And great was his confusion when Sigurd started to pull him closer, closer still, until their lips were pressed together. When his brother pulled on his braids even more violently than before, he couldn’t help but gasp in pain. And when he did so, Sigurd cut his breath short by pushing his tongue into Ubbe’s mouth.

In his mind, Sigurd knew that his brother would probably push him away for such disrespect. But to his surprise, Ubbe showed no resistance whatsoever and he closed his eyes once more, allowing his brother to do as he pleased.

Emboldened, Sigurd pulled him even closer, his hold getting even tighter, until he maneuvered his older brother to part his legs and sit astride his lap on the throne on whence he sat.

There were no words passing between them, or perhaps there should have been. But Sigurd’s demanding tongue refused his brother the use of speech. And even during the moments when they had to part, he would not allow Ubbe to speak by shoving his fingers into his mouth.

And his lips started to move down, travelling towards his elder brother’s bloodied throat. Ubbe neither winced nor gasped in complaint – he simply suffered everything as quietly as he always did. And when his younger brother wanted to taste his mouth again, he allowed himself to be pulled down once more, tasting his own blood in the process.

In time, Sigurd started tugging away at Ubbe’s clothing until everything was strewn into the floor, biting and suckling on every inch of skin he could reach. And when the throne became too confining, he dragged Ubbe into the bear skin below and laid him there so he could touch him unencumbered.

Swept by the moment, Sigurd could feel his arousal getting more and more unbearable. Without thinking, he parted his brother’s naked thighs, settled himself therein, and unlaced his breeches. But even when his mind was clouded by his need, he remembered the dishonor of a man who lays underneath another, and so he looked to Ubbe eyes for consent.

To his surprise, Ubbe merely nodded and said, “Do as you please.”

Upon seeing the guilt on his younger brother’s face, he further said unto him, “This is my will. For I want to show you that even if you dishonor me, I will love you just the same because you are my brother. Just promise me that whatever your disagreements with Ivar and Hvitserk, you will remain amenable to speak to them. There can be no bad blood between us for we are a family.”

Hearing such words, Sigurd’s heart softened once more and tears came to his eyes. Ubbe merely smiled, his heart no longer forlorn. And when he raised his hand to wipe his little brother’s tears away, Sigurd responded by kissing his fingers, his palm, his arm, his neck, and his lips. And as his kisses grew deeper and deeper at each passing moment, he knew that there was no stopping the inevitable. Ubbe merely clutched the bear skin, bracing himself for the initial pain of their joining.

Parting his brother’s legs even further apart, Sigurd positioned his member therein, and in a swift thrust, buried himself to the hilt. And when he was breached, Ubbe merely bit his lip and then sighed, still keeping his thighs parted for his brother’s enjoyment. And as Sigurd started to thrust faster and deeper, the satisfaction eventually became more mutual than before. Finally, they reached the pinnacle and Sigurd’s warm seed flooded into his brother. Even so, it wasn’t over yet, for his longing was not yet fully sated.

Thus, from the height of noon to the first brink of twilight, the Great Hall remained closed. And when it was reopened, the king no longer sported a menacing scowl but a thoughtful look on his face. For though he perceived betrayal in Ivar’s actions, Sigurd now wanted to hear his little brother’s side of the story.

_-_

_tbc_


	11. Chapter 11

In the gloom of the twilight sky, a gentle rain fell upon the Western Saxon lands as though weeping in unison with the people therein. For the wise King Aethelred son of Aethelwulf lay on his deathbed surrounded by his queen, his brother, the bishop of Sherborne, and the members of his Witan. Pale as a ghost and with his breath teetering at the edge of Heaven’s door, he mustered the last of his strength to proclaim:

“Let it be known to all and let there be no dispute – upon my demise, the crown shall pass unto my brother and heir Prince Alfred.”

And despite the hushed and nervous mutterings among the nobles, he continued,

“Such is the will of God, such is the fate handed unto us by Our Lord Almighty. And I believe that this fate is for the better, for there is no scribe any wiser, no warrior any stronger, no leader more capable than the one chosen by God’s divine hand. For the ways of the Lord are profound and sublime, His love everlasting.

“Thus, let there be no protest upon my brother’s ascension. Let there be unity and harmony among our people, noble and peasant alike, for we live in such troubled times. Now that my life is about to end, I shall be at peace for I well know that I leave Wessex to capable hands.”

Prince Alfred sat on his brother’s bedside and bit the insides of his mouth until it bled, and yet despite his efforts, there was no stopping the torrent falling from his eyes. And he held his brother’s hands firmly but tenderly.

Despite the lack of audible words from Alfred’s lips, Aethelred understood his little brother’s heart, knew of those very same words Alfred used to say since they were children,

_‘You are my world. Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me. I cannot bear to be without you, brother.’_

And his heart ached for his little brother, for Aethelred knew that upon the very next moment, Alfred will be truly, utterly, completely alone. For their dear father was gone, their sweet mother too, and gentle Aethelbald and jolly Aethelbehrt, all of them gone, taken away by God’s mighty and unstoppable hand.

Aethelred opened his lips once more to comfort his brother, to encourage his heart by saying that despite his incoming solitude, all will be well in the end. And yet when he attempted to speak, he found that he could no longer do so for his voice was gone. And so, he could do no more but squeeze Alfred’s hand in reassurance, wordlessly telling him that they were never torn asunder despite all the recent conflicts between them. And as his eyes slowly closed without his knowing, Aethelred felt his brother’s warm tears falling upon his face.

Perhaps by God’s grace, he was granted the final strength to move his lips one last time, and to his brother he whispered, “I love you.”

As the king’s soul departed from his body, the prince could hold himself no longer and he wept soundly and openly, his heart torn apart by the immense pain. And he lifted his brother’s limp body and embraced him, kissed him many times even as Aethelred started to lose his warmth and his softness, and he held him tightly in his arms and refused to let go.

Upon such sight, those in attendance made the sign of the cross and uttered their prayers. There was an unmistakeable fear in their eyes. For though Wessex had won against their recent battle against Hyngwar, the heathens remained victorious for Halfdene managed to wrangle a substantial amount of Danegeld from the royal coffers. And now that Wessex lost most of the gold in its treasury, its new king cannot afford to lose himself in his grief for there was a nearly-impoverished kingdom to save.

Understanding the gravity of the circumstances, Bishop Heahmund endured the pain of his myriad injuries and limped towards Alfred, his one hand firmly holding the Holy Book while the other grasped the prince’s shoulder. And he said unto him, “Your Highness, please.”

Despite the pain in his heart, body and soul, Alfred understood his duty and he tenderly laid his brother back onto the bed. And when he looked onto the king once more, he nearly believed that Aethelred never died at all, for he looked as though he was only sleeping. And yet as he kissed him one more time, he felt cold unyielding lips devoid of life.

And so, not bothering to wipe away his tears, he stepped away from the bed and nodded to the bishop who then proclaimed, “The king is dead.”

Then gesturing to Alfred, he uttered, “Long live the king! His Majesty Alfred son of Aethewulf! Long live!”

As Heahmund pronounced the Lord’s blessing to solemnize his kingship, Alfred’s countenance was blank and his heart had gone completely numb. And as he knelt to receive the symbols of his authority, the tears in his eyes kept flowing, as boundless as the rain flowing from above.

Finally, he stood up, with the crown of Wessex on his head and the holy sceptre on his hand.

But as he faced the Witan and those in attendance, there was an incredulous look on everyone’s faces. And when the bishop turned look to their newly-crowned king, he made the sign of the cross and fell down to his knees.

For tears of blood started to fall from Alfred’s eyes – a miraculous sign in the eyes of all Christians, a symbol of a blessed reign. And so, following the father of the church, the nobles also knelt, their eyes brimming with tears. For though the Lord took away their beloved King Aethelred who had been their light and their salvation, He gave them a divine replacement, mayhap a saint or an angel sent from on high.

And so, the cry was repeated, “Long live the king! Long live King Alfred!”

The herald sounded his trumpets and the commoners outside the castle knelt and shouted in unison, “Long live the king! Long live King Alfred!”

Alfred blinked a little, his eyes very sore and tired, and yet he firmly held his ground. And he stood tall and proud as a king should, for this was what Aethelred wished of him. For a ruler must remain strong and steadfast despite his pains. And Alfred knew that he must be resilient and cunning like his brother, for the times were turbulent and the threat of the Danes still loomed over the Saxon realms.

Wessex must be defended at all costs, he firmly resolved, for within this realm was spent the many sweet years he and his brother shared. And he was willing to do anything to preserve such legacy all in honor of his brother’s memory.

After the mixed mourning and festivities throughout the land, Alfred had no rest. For Bishop Heahmund immediately took him aside into the secret chamber within the king’s chamber. He knew that this was no time for grief or reprieve for the bishop’s face was grim. And despite the weariness on the new king’s face, the young bishop did not waver in his steadfast gaze and in a quiet voice said unto him,

“Sire, the late king had given me this box for safekeeping.” Raising his hand, the bishop showed him a wooden box devoid of any insignia denoting its importance. There was a silver necklace as well, an unassuming chain bearing but one pendant. And the bishop continued, “Here is its only key which I will now give unto you, its rightful owner.”

Still tired but mystified, Alfred received it and asked, “What does it contain?”

“Secrets,” Bishop Heahmund whispered in reply. “Records of every noble family of Wessex as well as that of the other Saxon kingdoms. Even in his sickness, King Aethelred still worked to painstakingly identify the nobles now allied to the Danes, the extent of their borders, and the number of soldiers each house presently retains. I haven’t read the entirety of it for it contains so much detail, the likes of which I have never seen before.”

When Heahmund placed both box and key onto his hands, Alfred felt an immense gratitude and pride. For his brother proved to be an astute and capable ruler, a shining light that led Wessex to prosperity and strength despite being surrounded by the fallen Saxon lands now occupied by the Danes. As the bishop left, carefully shutting the door behind him, Alfred’s heart quickened, his sadness creeping in once more.

But there was nothing to be done now but accept their fate. And so, pushing his feelings aside, Alfred opened the box and started to peruse the scrolls therein. On the bottommost part was a letter sealed with the king’s signet ring. He opened it carefully and read the contents therein. And no matter how he hardened his heart, he could not control a tear escaping down his cheek. For he was once again overcome by his heart’s pains.

All of a sudden, a sharp knock came onto his door. Alfred hastily wiped his tears and gripped his sword, readying himself for the incoming foe.

But there was no enemy for there and then emerged his son, Edward. And perhaps this was God’s divine love showing, for at the very first time, he recognized that face – Aethelred, that same face his brother had when he was a child, a face long-forgotten but now remembered, melding into the image of his only begotten son.

Perhaps the boy was taken aback by his father’s intense gaze for Edward spoke, “Forgive me for intruding, father.”

Regaining his bearings, Alfred smiled unto him and said, “I forgive you. But only if you tell me the reason why you came here.”

Edward stuck out his tongue in jest, then he ran towards his father to sit on his lap. Alfred swallowed hard to stop his tears, for he was once again reminded of what he had lost. But perhaps this was God’s way of telling him that he never lost anything at all. For here was his brother’s perfect likeness in the form of his own son and heir.

“…and I was so afraid, for Nanny Aud told me of how terrifying the Danes were. They had eyes as red as blood and sharp horns like the Devil’s himself,” Edward prattled. “Is it true that they eat misbehaving children? Is it true that there are werewolves and witches among them? Do they really turn virtuous women and pious men into faithless whores and wicked sodomites by simply looking at them?”

And seeing his father’s lack of reaction, the child frowned and said, “Are you even listening to me?”

Alfred laughed sheepishly to that and said, “Of course I’m listening.”

Edward pouted and asked, “And do you remember what I just said?”

Alfred furrowed his brows pretending to think hard and then said, “You were telling me how frightening the Danes were.”

And the little prince looked to his father, quite surprised at the king’s expression. And Edward said, “You aren’t frightened of them at all.”

The king of Wessex laughed and said, “No, I’m not. For Saxon kings are never frightened of anything. Not even of Danes.”

Upon seeing his son’s eyes widen with both astonishment and admiration, Alfred was prompted to unsheathe his sword from its scabbard and he said, “They are mighty now for their numbers are great, but I and our brave warriors will soon slaughter them with this.”

And when the prince reached out his hand to touch the blade, Alfred sheathed it once more, and Edward pouted once again. But this time, the child had a determined sparkle in his eyes and said, “When I grow up, I want to be like you, father, and use a sword. But just so you know, I already learned how to use the longbow, for I was joining some of the peasant children in their exercises.”

“Aren’t you the friendly one?” Alfred said, fondly remembering Aethelred’s own temperament. “It is good that you mingle with our people on your own volition. For by doing so, you gain both their love and loyalty.”

Seeing his son’s eyes upon him in rapt attention, Alfred continued, “A king must remain beloved by his people and feared by his enemies. For a king’s rule and dynasty becomes truly blessed when he has these attributes. However, there are times when a king is overwhelmed by a stronger enemy. And when that happens, what must he do to overcome such foe?”

Edward thought for a while and answered, “He must find a way to conquer the enemy’s weakness, the same way that little David conquered the mighty Goliath with a mere slingshot.”

Alfred smiled to that, remembering well his own advantage over the Danes. For in the letter with Aethelred’s unmistakeable hand, it was written:

_My dearest brother,_

_It was discovered by our spies that Hyngwar has a severe illness and it grows worse as the days pass by. Thus now, I know that the Angel of Death will soon come knocking for the both of us. But do not underestimate the Danes just yet, for while Hyngwar is alive, the Great Army will remain united and impenetrable. Have patience and wait for his demise – it is only a matter of time._

_Upon his death, watch out for Halfdene and Guthrum for they will rule the Great Army in his stead. They will be divided then and their fall will be imminent. Never negotiate with Halfdene for he is a battle-hardened commander who will accept no truce nor show us any semblance of mercy. Young Guthrum is more amenable, but only when separated from Halfdene._

_Sigurd is also a great threat, for his spy network is more extensive than any of his brothers’. But he is loyal to neither Hyngwar nor Halfdene. Thus, you must foment as much conflict in between them as you are able. There is no doubt that with the right pretext, Sigurd will forsake his brothers, leave our lands, take his warriors back to the Danes’ Mark, and never return._

_Ubba is trickier to handle for he is an anointed duke and his Frisian realms are comprised of both pagans and Christians. Therefore, any direct attack against him will be condemned by the fathers of the Holy Mother Church. There are also rumors that his wife’s kin is allied to the Frankish Emperor. Thus, never pursue an open battle. Instead, break his brothers apart and let him be caught in their conflict. And if you succeed, you may then move in for the kill._

As if to break him from his thoughts, Edward then asked, “How do we know our enemy’s weakness, father?”

The king replied, “’Tis the same way we know any person’s weakness.”

And when the prince sported a puzzled look on his face, Alfred continued, “My weakness is my beloved family. If the enemy captures you, I am as good as dead. For losing you will break my heart and cause me to die of grief. The enemy is the same, for they are no devils but people like us. They hate and they love, they sacrifice and they covet, for such are the weaknesses inherent to the human heart.”

“So family is your weakness, father?” Edward asked once more.

“Yes, but it is my strength also. For when you are around, I am renewed and no one can conquer me.” Seeing his son’s face soften at his words, Alfred continued, “But our country has a much greater weakness which gives us no strength whatsoever.”

And Edward asked, “What’s that?”

“Our lack of unity,” Alfred answered, his voice laced with sadnesss. “That is the reason why Northumbria fell, why the Mercians allowed the Danes to pass through their realm and destroy the boroughs from within, and why East Anglia periodically paid them Danegeld to fight against the Mercians until such time that the Danes finally annexed them.”

Edward was taken aback once more, and in his childish understanding, he exclaimed, “If that is true, then it’s only a matter of time for the remaining kingdoms to fall. We stand alone now, so it’s easier for the Danes to win and conquer us all and make us their slaves!”

Alfred only nodded to that for he knew his son’s words to be true. But to placate the child, he said, “And that is why there must be one Saxon kingdom that stands strong to unite all of our people against our common foe.”

Seeing his son in rapt attention, Alfred continued, “Northumbrians, Angles, Mercians, West Saxons, Middle Saxons, South Saxons – we are all one kin, the English people. One God, one kingdom, one nation. One people that needs one king.”

To that Edward grinned, his eyes sparkling in reminiscence of Aethelred’s, and unto his father he said, “I hope that king will be the King of Wessex.”

“I hope so too,” Alfred simply replied.

At that moment, a throng of fireflies flew into the open window. Young Edward reached out his hand in delight, seemingly forgetting his conversation with his father. Alfred’s burden was also lifted for a while and he raised his hand as well. As he did so, the fireflies came closer and some alighted on his palm before delicately fluttering away.

And thus, despite his grief still afresh, the newly-crowned king of Wessex was no longer forlorn for the omens favored him. And he smiled. For in his heart, he now believed that God was truly on his side.

Perhaps it was only his imagination, but it was very real to him. For as he headed off to bed to rest, Alfred felt his brother’s familiar kiss on his lips. And so, his determination was strengthened even more for even in death, his brother watched over him the way he always did.

As the night deepened, so did the Wessex king and his son fall into a deep slumber, their dreams calm and suffused with visions of victory. And in the darkness of the room, a few fireflies alighted upon Aethelred’s letter and illuminated the words,

_‘Bretwalda, King of all Britain.’_

-

Morning light filtered through the skies illuminating the Danish longport as the waves lapped calmly about. And yet the Queen-Mother stood anxiously on the docks, looking incredibly shook, her face dirtily smudged in contrast to the finery she wore, the kohl in her eyes now reduced into dark streaks mixed with her tears both old and new. And she clung to her firstborn son, her hands firmly attached on his arm unwilling to let him go.

Ubbe looked to her and sighed, quite tired of going through the same words many days before. For Aslaug understood of what happened between her sons, knew of the extent of her eldest son’s sacrifice, the lengths he was willing to go to make peace between his brothers.

“Mother, please,” were Ubbe’s only words. The Queen-Mother trembled, her anxieties left unspoken, so great was her distress that she was unable to speak. Seeing that she won’t leave him, Ubbe turned to his sister-in-law.

Blaeja stood from a small distance, her face quite sympathetic towards her mother by law. But she also knew that it was best not to interfere on her husband’s affairs. For as far as she was concerned, her primary duty was to rule as Sigurd’s queen, to maintain the household, and take care of their children. And so, she took Aslaug’s hands from Ubbe’s arms, allowing him to embark.

As the ships pulled up their anchors and sailed, the Queen-Mother sank onto the ground sobbing uncontrollably, greatly lamenting what has become of her sons. And yet, not one of the onlookers understood the true cause of her grief.

Sigurd greatly pitied his mother but he knew there was nothing to be done. For he and Ubbe were no longer children to be minded by her. And besides that, why would she attempt to do that now that it was too late?

And so, as their vessels flew fast like dragons over the waves, Sigurd lay beside his brother and gazed upon him as he slept, quite exhausted. For during the days spent in the land of their childhood, he and Ubbe consummated their agreement.

On that same hunting lodge where Sigurd’s heart was broken, that same place holding many memories of pleasure and sorrow and endless regret, he was renewed and healed. For he came not to wallow in his loneliness, for it was done in fulfilment of the conditions he had specified, the terms that convinced him to meet with his brothers and clear their misunderstanding once and for all.

On their first day therein, he turned to his older brother who still sported the same dispassionate look on his face. But despite the lack of visible expression, he also knew that Ubbe was determined to hold his end of the bargain. For he was one willing to sacrifice anything and everything to keep the family together, his honor quite disposable so long as his brothers renewed their good relations once more.

As his thumb grazed on his brother’s cheek, Sigurd wondered what could have happened if he had been less secretive in his younger years, if he had been less inhibited, less focused on that one person who roused in him both rage and a maddening lust. And yet he also knew that the past was gone and could never be remade. All he could do now was to live in the present and take what was being offered.

And so, he pulled him closer and sealed their agreement with a kiss, one that Ubbe accepted without complaint. For though a man, he was pliant and agreeable. Like their youngest brother, he was beautiful and fey, definitely sweet and delectable, more desirable than a woman.

Thus, with the peaceful spring wind and the gentle sound of flowing water nearby, he laid him down the bed and did as he pleased, took him as many times as his body craved. Mayhap due to the many years of longing spent unfulfilled, Sigurd remained easy to rouse no matter how often he was satisfied.

Ubbe simply let him be, allowed his brother to move him into a myriad positions as he took him with a wild vigor, for this was in fulfilment of their treaty. And as the sun rose further into the sky, he bit his lip when he was taken from behind, closed his eyes as his younger brother’s thrusts grew even more violent than before. And he buried his face into the furs as Sigurd spilled deeply into him once again, his new release joining the others that had previously flowed therein.

Finally, Sigurd pulled out, and maneuvered his brother to lie down on his back once more, only to take him all over again. Not once did Ubbe protest, his response only kisses and gentle touches and total surrender. Sigurd relished the opportunity to push his sex even deeper, his tongue slipping into his brother’s mouth just as deeply as though saying ‘ _You’re mine. You belong to me_.’

But without warning, his mind wandered to that night a long time ago, when it was him and Ivar on this very bed, with Hvitserk completely erased from the memory. As the candlelight burned, so did he lift him into his arms, balanced him on his sex as their bodies moved in an intimate dance. And in his mind, he saw his little brother gaze upon him with a light smile on his lips.

Sigurd closed his eyes, now deeply immersed in his fantasy, and pulled Ivar even closer, kissing him gently but passionately. And his fingers started to thread into his younger brother’s hair, undoing his braids, their mouths locked together as his sex plunged in deeper, faster. Overcome by feeling, he laid him down the bed once again and renewed their joining with an increasing tempo.

And yet, as he was about to reach the heights, he heard the sounds of battle, saw Ivar astride his horse looking into him with that same gentle smile as he opened his ranks, allowing the Saxons to breach the Danish line of defense. And seeing his older brother narrowly escape the enemy’s onslaught, Ivar took his trusty axe, the one that severed King Edmund’s head in one stroke, the one Hrolfr had fearfully gazed upon before his sudden disappearance. And without so much as batting an eye, Ivar flung it fast and true, the blade embedding on Sigurd’s neck.

Sigurd opened his eyes abruptly, his breath hitching frantically. And as he looked around, he was back in Denmark, the sounds of battle nowhere to be heard, the clashing of swords replaced by the peaceful sound of the flowing stream nearby.

“Are you alright, brother?”

And when he heard that voice, he was fully brought back to reality. For the man in his arms was no longer Ivar but Ubbe gazing upon him thoughtfully. Sigurd blinked fast, his heart still racing but already relieved for the illusion was gone.

Receiving no reply, Ubbe looked at him, his countenance contemplating, and said, “You were thinking of him, weren’t you?” Still hearing no response, he smiled knowingly and said, “I know that you do. And I understand the reason for the terms you had laid upon me, for you wish to be freed from him by laying with me.”

Sigurd merely blinked to that, his heart still frozen by the thought of Ivar’s betrayal, but Ubbe held his face with his hands and caressed him the way he always did when they were young. Seeing that his little brother’s nerves had started to calm down, Ubbe pulled him down in a gentle embrace. Sigurd closed his eyes breathing in his scent, his body relaxing in his brother’s comforting warmth, that same sweet warmth that had always consoled him ever since he was a child.

As his heart lightened, his lust also started to subside. And yet, he did not withdraw his sex from his brother and instead, simply lay with him there, still on top of him, his face buried in his brother’s neck. And as he saw the dried wounds therein, the marks of his sword, he recognized that in his anger, he had been very unreasonable and cruel, and his heart was filled with guilt. And so, he slightly arose and looked into his brother’s face wanting to say his apologies and yet stopped, for his tongue failed him.

But Ubbe understood his heart and only smiled, and then said unto him, “Now you realize your mistake. Don’t do it again.”

“But are you not upset with my demands?” Sigurd asked, his remorse only increasing. “This may not be known to others but you’re ergi (unmanly) now and it’s all my fault.”

Ubbe chuckled to that and said, “Indeed, I am. But what makes a man truly a man? Is it the pride of having not lain underneath another?”

Noting the confusion on Sigurd’s face, Ubbe only laughed lightly and placed a kiss on his brother’s cheek and then said, “Nay. A man is one who has sown his seed and borne fruit to continue his legacy. Taking another man’s seed doesn’t make one less of a man, so long as he had lain with his wife and sired sons by her.”

That was true, Sigurd thought, and yet their dalliance must be hidden. For most ergi were either men who sold their bodies for the pleasure of another or the priests who performed the holy but womanly rites of seidr, professions deemed unworthy for any free man, let alone a man of noble status.

As though reading his younger brother’s mind, Ubbe continued, “But it is true that I am in the state of dishonor. Though unknown to others, my pride has truly fallen by your hand. And so, remember what you have done to me and of how easily I forgave you. For despite what you have put me through, just as I said before, I still love you and will keep loving you all eternity.”

And upon seeing the tears starting to form on his little brother’s face, Ubbe carried on, “That is why whatever the faults you find in our youngest brother, you must suffer it as I have suffered yours. Love him just the same despite all his failings, be it treachery, disloyalty and dishonor, though I do not believe he has done any of that.”

Hearing that, Sigurd’s anger returned and his tears started to fall in his bitterness. But Ubbe simply kissed them away and then told him, “You loved him for a long time and yet you never said it aloud. Don’t you know that he loves you too?”

“Lies!” Sigurd hissed angrily. “He cannot love anyone. He’s a power-hungry man with more cunning than Loki –”

“Hush,” Ubbe cut off his words. “Away with your bitterness. Honor your word to me and suspend all your anxieties. All shall be well, you will see.”

When he looked into his older brother, Sigurd saw a certainty therein and he understood that Ubbe knew something he did not. For a time, he thought that perhaps his brother was in league with Ivar, that mayhap placing the both of them together on this bed was one of his younger brother’s ploys, cunning man that he was, able to manipulate anyone to do his bidding.

But in his heart, Sigurd remembered the days when they were children, when Ubbe endured their mother’s neglect alongside them, how he shielded the three of them from their father’s indifference. And despite being a child himself at that time, his older brother was the one who stood up to truly care for them, the one who nurtured them without even thinking of himself, the one who dismissed his own needs for the sake of his little brothers. And now, he had abandoned his honor to meet Sigurd’s unreasonable demands, all in service of keeping the family together once again.

Thus, no matter his suspicions and the threat of Ivar’s axe on his neck, Sigurd resolved that he must do his part for his older brother’s sake. For he knew that in the event of their youngest brother’s treachery, Ubbe will put himself in between them just as he did a thousand times before.

And so, Sigurd breathed out his misgivings, lay cheek to cheek with his brother, and embraced him tight. For he had realized that he was not alone, never was, never will be. It was only his own folly that blinded his eyes, his reason clouded by his own stubbornness and his pride.

Ubbe simply embraced him back and placed a kiss on Sigurd’s nose as his eyes fluttered into a close. And upon seeing his older brother’s faith in him, Sigurd felt that the ice in his heart had fully melted, the poison of his bitterness fully excised.

And as though the confinements upon his sex were removed as well, Sigurd felt his desire awakening once more. For even without the thought of his little brother, he felt himself roused, mayhap in response to his older brother’s loving kindness. Ubbe felt that as well, since his younger brother was still inside him. And to Sigurd’s amusement, his brother only chuckled and shook his head in mirth.

Thus, they renewed their joining once again. And as he claimed his older brother’s lips one more time, Sigurd knew he was fully freed, his heart, mind and body no longer shackled to the past.

As the sea breeze guided their sails, Sigurd smiled lightly and gently caressed his brother’s sleeping face. His body greatly remembered the intense pleasure his brother had given him and he wanted it again. But he knew he had to temper himself for there are more important matters at hand.

And as he reminisced on the sweetness they shared, he was filled with gratitude. For Ubbe had opened his mind to the reality laid before him. Because of him, Sigurd was no longer grasping in the cloudy fog of his own feelings, no longer under Ivar’s spell. In exchange for Ubbe’s submission in his bed, Sigurd would remain in alliance with his little brother, but this time, he would be at the height of his faculties, no longer ruled by his emotions.

Finally, Ubbe’s fleet along with Sigurd’s finally docked in the Frisian realms. They travelled further inland till they reached Kennemerland, a portion of the nether lands under the rule of King Rurik son of Harald Klak. There, they saw their brothers’ own fleets fresh from England, for on that day, the four sons of Ragnar Lothbrok were brought back together once more.

Upon their arrival, some inhabitants of the land, particularly the king’s Christian subjects, were visibly excited at the prospect of another great war coming. For each of the three Danish kings brought along boatloads of Vikingrs and most of the Frisian citizens were envious, for they wanted to join the incoming spring raids. Some argued on which of Ragnar’s sons possessed the greatest military strength. But ultimately, they agreed that their own Duke Ubbe was the strongest of all, a fact that they repeated with great pride.

As they entered the king’s courtyard, Sigurd smiled fondly as Ubbe was greeted and tightly embraced by his firstborn Godfrid, the youth now taller than his father. But then, he looked away for a moment as father and son kissed each other tenderly and talked affectionately, such warmth that Sigurd was never used to.

As his eyes took in the sight of his older brother’s new homeland, he was amazed by the beauty and comfort therein – the rich fields and orchards, abundant grains and livestock carefully tended by the farmers who worshipped Freyr’s divine phallus along with the cross of the Christ God.

This was a people who raided not because of dire poverty and a harsh climate. They only went Viking as a means of expanding their trade networks, to contain their people’s inherent bloodlust, and to show other kingdoms that they cannot be raided or intimidated. And as Ubbe immersed into this new culture, so had he adapted and changed to suit the environment. Sigurd realized that his brother needed not to change much, for these people had the same tender temperament as he.

Finally, as they entered Rurik’s Great Hall, Sigurd marvelled at the majesty of it, such splendour as he had never seen before. To his greatest shock however, Ubbe was immediately swept into the arms of one of the noblemen therein and kissed three times on the corners of his lips, left, right, then left, the sight of such making Sigurd shudder for it was a scandalous sight to the Danes.

And as he was kissed, Ubbe responded in kind and merely said, “Well met, brother.”

They finally faced him, Ubbe nonchalantly laughing as the other man kept kissing his hair and the side of his face, his shoulders held tightly by the other, and he said, “Sigurd, this is Hemming, Lord of Velsen, my brother-in-law. Hemming, this is my brother Sigurd, King of the Danish homeland.”

Hemming finally stopped pressing his lips on Ubbe and turned his eyes to Sigurd, his purple eyes sparkling with wonder as he looked intently on Sigurd’s eyes, and then he said, “The legends are true. You do have a snake in your eye.”

Sigurd managed to force a smile and said, “Well met, my Lord Hemming.”

But when the Frisian lord stepped towards him, Sigurd stepped back, not wanting to be touched.

Hemming only laughed and said, “Don’t worry. I won’t kiss you.” Then he grinned and added, “Unless you want me to.”

“No, thank you,” Sigurd replied quite frankly, much to Lord Hemming’s amusement.

“Now if you so please,” Hemming said ushering the both of them to a nearby door. And he pressed a kiss on Ubbe’s shoulder one more time before letting him go.

Seeing Sigurd’s expression, a mix of shock and slight disgust, Ubbe only shrugged and said, “It took me five years to get used to _that_.”

Finally, they lifted the curtains and entered therein, and by doing so, they saw their brothers Ivar and Hvitserk already making themselves comfortable, sitting on carved chairs casually talking about the strangeness of the Frisian realm, how deceptive and unpredictable. For the kingdom’s abundance and peace hid the ferocity of its warriors quite perfectly.

Upon seeing their brothers coming towards them, Hvitserk merely smiled despite the obvious anger in his eyes. Ivar on the other hand seemed calm as always, but Sigurd knew that there was something else in his little brother, something he failed to comprehend, just that his little brother seemed more lonesome than before.

Sigurd took a deep breath and sat among them – he on one side, Hvitserk and Ivar on the other side and Ubbe in between them.

Mayhap not wanting to waste his time, Halfdan Hvitserk immediately began to rail at his brother, saying,

“Why did you leave the battlefield, Sigurd? Didn’t you know that we were defeated because of your actions? Because of your cowardice, the Western Saxons slaughtered many of our warriors and drove us back to our Mercian domains. Because of your sudden retreat, Burgred was encouraged to fight back and he trapped us in his castle. It was only fortunate that our little brother managed a bluff that led us to an escape. We almost died for no reason and it was your fault, you spineless, cowardly, yellow-haired Christian! Perhaps your wife had convinced you to kiss her God’s arse, you stupid, idiotic pathetic fool!”

Ubbe opened his mouth as if to say something, but he managed not to utter a word, so surprised was he by Hvitserk’s angry rambling. And yet, perhaps to everyone’s surprise, Sigurd merely waved away his brother’s affronting language and looked straight to his younger brother. And upon seeing that Ivar simply sat there quietly, Sigurd said, “What say you, little brother? Why so silent? Are you just going to let your dog do the talking for you?”

Hearing that, Hvitserk angrily unsheathed his sword and moved to strike Sigurd with it, but his hand was stayed by Ubbe, who said, “Enough! Insults would neither fix nor resolve anything. Sigurd, explain yourself to our brothers, and after that, they will explain their side.”

“Alright,” Sigurd said, still surprised by his own calm. This was new to him and he slightly feared such change within him. But looking at Ubbe’s eyes, he regained his strength and he explained his reasons, “I retreated for I saw the Saxons surrounding me and my warriors on one side. But that was only temporary for I merely wanted to save our numbers then see the enemy’s true formation from afar.”

Hvitserk scoffed to that, though he remained silent, for Sigurd’s words were reasonable.

And Sigurd continued, his eyes still fixed on Ivar, “As I reached high ground, I saw the Saxons fully encircling the Great Army from the shadows. Thus, had we stayed longer, my forces would have been annihilated.”

His brothers remained silent, listening intently to his words, and so Sigurd carried on. “But as I looked carefully, I saw your warriors at the back of the enemy, encircling the Saxon circle and yet not doing anything. And that was in violation of our agreement. For I agreed to raid with you only if I was placed at the tail of the Army, and yet you placed your Vikingrs behind my back.”

Ubbe’s brows furrowed to that and Sigurd surmised that their elder brother did not see such detail for he was fighting Alfred at that time. Hvitserk’s frown remained and yet there was a semblance of confusion in his eyes.

“I remembered how you allowed the Saxons to pass through you and attack my regiment,” Sigurd continued. “When I was behind you, I thought nothing of it, for my warriors were capable of defeating them. But on high ground, I realized the true formation you had pushed me into. And to deliberately allow the enemy to surround me at the front and at the back, and with your warriors behind the enemy but standing down, I started to think – do you want to kill me, little brother?”

Ivar remained quiet for a while, then he carefully spoke, “We have discussed that formation before the battle. Why did you think I was going to kill you?”

Sigurd opened his lips to answer and then stopped, for his memory now recalled that one detail, of how they talked of encircling the enemy, of allowing the Saxons to chase Sigurd up into higher ground while Ivar’s archers would take them down from their hidden positions. And after that, Sigurd would return once more to take the enemy at the sides wherever the Saxon king commands them to go. For Aethelred’s greatest tactic was his flexibility, his skill to maneuver his warriors into unpredictable forms.

As he realized his mistake, Sigurd felt the shame rising from within, for he had truly been clouded by his own imperfect judgment. And he looked to Ubbe who merely nodded in understanding before saying, “Now I see that this was a lapse of memory on your part, Sigurd. But for you to think of treachery, that was quite uncalled for.”

Hvitserk laughed to that, his rage apparent, and said, “Lapse of memory? Or maybe you were the one who wanted us dead?” And he smiled bitterly at his brother and continued, “It seems like I underestimated the extent of your ambitions. For if you eliminate both Ivar and me, wouldn’t you gain both York and Dublin in one fell swoop? For someone who feigns forgetfulness, you sure are very precise, _dear_ Sigurd.”

To that, Sigurd could not find a reply, for this was entirely his fault, the result of his own bitter feelings twisting his own mind, his jealousy morphing into a monster of his own doing. And so, whatever the judgment of his brothers, he was now willing to accept it. For he deserved their wrath. If Hvitserk struck him with his sword now, Sigurd would accept it with good grace for he deserved it.

But before he could say his thoughts aloud, Ivar said, “I don’t think he wants to kill you, Hvitserk. The target has always been me.”

Sigurd looked to his younger brother for Ivar’s voice started to falter. And to his greatest regret, he beheld tears falling from his brother’s eyes. And Ivar continued to speak,

“You have always hated me from the very beginning, haven’t you, brother? You hated me because I was incapable, stupid and hideous, unlike our brothers who were fair and beautiful and could walk like all the normal people. But you were stuck to care for me when we were younger. Because of me, our mother became unfaithful, our father distant. You have always resented me for that, haven’t you?”

Sigurd felt as if those words stabbed him, and yet the more he thought about it, the more his brother’s words made sense. For Sigurd’s pride had been too great for him to show his love, and without his knowing, he made his brother suffer greatly.

Ubbe attempted to intervene but ended up not saying anything, while Hvitserk spoke, “That was in the past, brother. This is about the battle in Wessex, nothing more.”

But Ivar waved him off, his eyes still upon Sigurd, and continued,

“No matter what I do to please you, no matter how hard I try to reach for you, for even just a drop of your love, you always swatted me like a bug, for my very presence and existence disgusts you. You always recoil against me because in your eyes, I was a monster, terrible and revolting and irredeemable. I was a blight to our father’s legacy, the cause of our mother’s shame. And you have always hated me for that. I don’t blame you because I really am a monster. An ugly, crippled, hideous monster.”

Ivar laughed lightly to that, opened the vial he had been holding for sometime, and then said, “So, I’ll give you what you want. I’ll be gone before you know it. I wish you all the happiness in the world, brother.”

And to that, he raised the small cup and said, “Skol,” before he drank the contents therein.

Ubbe felt his own pocket and saw that it was empty. And in alarm, he went to his youngest brother and shook him hard, “That poison is very potent. Spit it out!”

But it was too late. The vial rolled away without a single drop left as Ivar fell down to the floor.

_-_

_tbc_


	12. Chapter 12

As his younger brother collapsed to the floor, Sigurd froze, stiff as a stone. For he finally realized that he was the one to be blamed for the suffering of everyone he professed to love. Now, he recognized the depth of his own hypocrisy, of his refusal to see his own mistakes. And now that Ivar had fallen because of him, Sigurd went numb as though he had also imbibed that vial of poison. In the very depths of his heart, he wished that he was the one who drank it, for it was he who deserved it.

His older brothers completely ignored him, as they should, and focused on Ivar’s unconscious form. Hvitserk still attempted to make his brother spit out the vile concoction while Ubbe rummaged on his own pockets muttering, “I always have an antidote but somehow it’s also gone.”

And as Hvitserk did his ministrations, he felt something on Ivar’s clenched hand, another empty vial. And when Ubbe saw it, he sighed, for he realized that his youngest brother had emptied the only medicine to the venom he had just imbibed. But instead of wallowing in his regret, their elder brother thought fast and said, “A cure must be made at once.”

Then Ubbe clapped a hand on Hvitserk’s shoulder and rapidly said, “Continue with your ministrations on our brother. Just enough to make him throw it up, but don’t be too hard on him. Never leave his side. I’ll take some herbs. I’ll be back.”

And without so much as looking back, he ran speedily outside. Hvitserk tried to follow his older brother’s instructions as best as he could but without success. Sigurd saw the desperation in his brother’s eyes but could do nothing to alleviate it.

But Ubbe returned very quickly, and this time, he brought Hemming along who carried not only herbs but the tools that Frisians used for creating medicine. They went to work immediately and ground some selected herbs into a pestle. Hemming looked at Ivar’s limp form and said, “We’ll never make it. That poison works too fast. What happened to your brother anyway? Why would he drink something like that on his own volition?”

“Shut up and keep grinding,” Ubbe ordered, his brow starting to sweat from his efforts.

When Hemming was finished, Ubbe took the green paste and mixed it to the red concoction he had made. And upon seeing that it was fully combined, he took a spoon and tried to feed it to his brother. But Ivar was already deep in his stupor that the antidote slipped out of his mouth, its potency made useless.

Hemming shook his head, overcome by resignation, for there was no way he knew how to resolve the situation. But Hvitserk merely asked, “I just have to make him swallow it, right?”

And when Ubbe nodded in affirmation, Hvitserk drank the substance himself much to Hemming’s surprise, who then exclaimed, “Stop! That antidote is a strong poison in and of itself. Without that other poison in your system, who knows what will happen to you?”

Heeding not the Frisian lord’s words, Hvitserk merely held the substance and pressed his mouth to his brother’s, until such time that Ivar’s throat had moved, forced to swallow the secondary poison that would neutralize the first one he had taken. But as soon as his saving deed was done, Hvitserk screamed in pain, his eyes brought to a close.

At that point, Sigurd moved, taking Hvitserk’s place as Hemming took his elder brother into his arms. The Frisian lord shook his head, his shoulders heaving, and said, “That was the bravest and most idiotic thing I’ve ever seen. I’ve always thought that the sons of Ragnar Lothbrok were akin to the Gods, but I never knew that such likeness involved inheriting their stupidity as well.”

Ubbe had foreseen the situation and merely took some of the leaves he had prepared, fed some to Hvitserk, and said, “Chew it hard and then swallow it. For the substance of that plant will neutralize the burning effect on your mouth and insides. You didn’t swallow it, did you?”

Hvitserk only shook his head, his mouth full.

“Not even a little?” Ubbe asked, and to that Hvitserk no longer attempted to answer. And by that, Sigurd thought that his older brother had probably imbibed some of it. Ubbe only sighed, fully knowing the effects of such but resigned to it, for this was the only solution he knew.

After a few moments, Hvitserk opened his eyes, and he narrowed them and said, “I…I can’t see.”

Ubbe only nodded, his face grim, and said, “Blindness is one the many effects of that substance when taken alone and in a large quantity. But you have only swallowed little of it and you have chewed on that plant immediately, so you are still fortunate. There is a chance that you would still be able to see, but even if you don’t, at least the other effects did not manifest.”

“It doesn’t matter what happens to me,” Hvitserk said, the pain in his voice still apparent. “Just make sure that Ivar is safe.”

Hemming shook his head, probably still surprised at Hvitserk’s foolhardiness but completely understanding the nobility of his character. “Your brother will live, but the poison works fast. Even if his body fully recovers, expect some changes in him.”

And the Frisian lord sighed once more, took some of the herbs and dried flowers, pounded it into paste, and handed it to Ubbe who had just finished heating some leaves above a small flame. Then he told Hvitserk, “Close your eyes. This paste will strengthen your eyesight, though I cannot say if it can be defended completely. Don’t worry about the heat for it will relax your nerves and allow the remedy to work faster.”

And so, Hvitserk did as he was bid. Ubbe placed the paste onto his eyelids and then topped it with the slightly heated leaves. Hemming then took a long strip of soft cloth and wrapped it as a bandage on Hvitserk’s eyes. And when it was securely done, he went outside and commanded some of his servants to take more beds from the adjacent rooms.

Sigurd merely looked on, realizing the gravity of his folly. And now he knew he could no more other than beat himself for his selfishness, for his cowardice and his mistrust, for allowing his bitterness to fully poison his mind and his own heart. For he had caused so many to suffer, including Hvitserk who had nothing to do with Sigurd’s own failings. Even Ubbe who had always been good to him, who had always been everyone’s source of comfort, also became a victim of Sigurd’s arrogance, of his desire to put others beneath him just to prove his own superiority.

And now, Ivar…

He closed his eyes, fully aware that whatever happens to his little brother, it would forever be on his conscience, forever a taunting voice at the back of his mind condemning his lack of compassion, forever reproaching the effects of his egoism and his pride. And even though Sigurd’s face was calm, his tears started to fall, for he knew he could never mend what he had broken nor restore what he had destroyed by the sharpness of his tongue and the cruelty of his hands.

He stayed that way for a moment, holding his little brother close in his arms, not even daring to kiss him when he was so near, and he simply stayed there, enduring the new pain in his heart. And if, by chance, his younger brother woke up still as he was before, and if he decided to take his revenge, Sigurd would welcome it with open arms. For he knew that he deserved it greatly, even if Ivar decided to cut his head off.

When everything was ready, Ubbe bid Sigurd to place Ivar onto one of the beds, his head, back and shoulders elevated by a stack of pillows, his body covered by a quilt from the chest down. And when their youngest brother was made comfortable, Ubbe then guided Hvitserk to stand and maneuvered him to the other bed on Ivar’s side. Then Hemming bid Hvitserk to drink a concoction already prepared, one that would numb his pain.

Finally, seeing that his little brothers are safe, Ubbe said unto Hemming, “Can we use the spare room at the back? I’ll let them rest for a while here and then have them moved there when it’s dark. I don’t want to inconvenience you further, but we cannot allow anyone to see my brothers in such a state for it would surely cause a panic among their warriors.”

Hemming merely shook his head and said, “You don’t have to move them.” And when Ubbe opened his mouth to protest, Hemming merely said, “You can have my room, for it is as you said – no one must know of what has transpired. This place is spacious enough and, most importantly, you will not have to pass through the hall, hence, you can avoid explaining the situation to the king. I’ll distract my uncle while I can. You just take care of them.”

And when Ubbe looked to his brother-in-law in immense gratitude, Hemming gazed back at him with a feeling that Sigurd understood completely. And he told Ubbe, “You always look after other people so much.”

Ubbe only smiled wearily and said, “They’re my brothers.”

“I’m your brother too,” Hemming said, “maybe not by blood but by law and also by heart. For you have taken great care of me when I was at my lowest. And so, whenever you are in need, never hesitate to accept my affection, for I must take care of you as you have cared for me. This is my duty to you, that much cannot be disputed, but it is also a service that I have always wanted to give from the bottom of my heart.”

And Hemming placed his arms around him in a warm embrace, kissed his cheek and then left. And when the Frisian lord was finally outside, Sigurd heard him commanding his warriors, “Guard the door and do not let anyone enter. Whenever my brother Ubbe needs something, find me for I shall attend to it personally. I’ll be near the king’s throne throughout the day but I’ll be looking for you from time to time.”

And when Hemming’s voice was no more, Sigurd eyes drooped, both from his grief and exhaustion. Seeing his state, Ubbe said unto him, “You must rest brother. Whatever has happened today is a tragedy and yet I believe that all will be well in the end.”

“This is all my fault,” Sigurd admitted.

Ubbe nodded to that, affirming his words. “Indeed, part of it was your doing, the grief you have put him through. But Ivar drank the poison by himself – that one was beyond you.”

And for a while, his older brother hesitated, his face neutral but his eyes filled with pain, and then said, “The one truly at fault was me. If I had only paid closer attention as you were growing up –”

“Stop!” Sigurd said, quite horrified. “You were also a child at that time and yet you took our father and mother’s place and brought us up. No one cared for you or guided you but you raised us up into what we are today. All of what we accomplished is because of you. You’re a kingmaker, you hear me?”

When he took his brother’s hand into his own, Sigurd felt that Ubbe was shaking, perhaps in immense sorrow but also due to his exertions. And Sigurd said, “None of this is your fault. This is merely the fate given to us by the Gods.”

“The Gods,” Ubbe whispered. Then he closed his eyes momentarily and sighed once more.

And because of his older brother starting to falter, though Sigurd deeply regretted what he had said and done in the past, he decided not to show it for he could not bear to see someone else fall. And he told him, “You should rest.”

“But you’re tired,” Ubbe reminded him.

“I’ll play a game of tafl by myself, that should be enough to wake me up,” Sigurd said.

Ubbe laughed at that, and yet his voice was exhausted. And so, he lay down beside Hvitserk and easily fell into slumber.

Finally, left alone with his own thoughts, Sigurd sat on Ivar’s bed and gently touched his little brother’s face. His heart was still filled with remorse and yet there was nothing that could be done. For a moment, he felt like killing himself, but he knew that was the easy way out and would never accomplish anything. Perhaps he should just leave – leave and never return for his presence was a blight to Ivar’s happiness.

That would be for the best, he surmised. And yet he knew his heart would remain yearning. And so, he decided to take a part of his brother with him, something of Ivar that he can hold in his hands even at the point of his death.

Thus, he took his knife and cut off one of Ivar’s braids and fastened it on the chain on his neck alongside Tyr’s cross. And he looked at his brother once again, his eyes attempting to remember each detail, as though this day was his last. As he did so, his heart was once more overcome with his love, no longer bitter and forceful in its longing but filled with understanding. And so, he was moved to press a kiss on his brother’s forehead.

At that moment, Ivar’s eyes opened and he called to him, “Hvitserk?”

Their eyes met for a moment, Sigurd’s heart stopping until he remembered to breathe once more. Ivar merely looked at him, his head tilting a little, and yet he never looked away. And then he giggled at his older brother, seemingly tickled at what he saw.

“You look funny, Hvitserk. Your hair is differently braided. And you look paler than usual. Are you sick?”

Sigurd was quite confused and he raised his hand and waved it to Ivar’s eyes, his heart beating anxiously on the chance that his little brother’s sight was also hurt by the potion, like Hvitserk’s. But Ivar simply followed the direction of his hand, caught it, and laughingly said,

“What are you doing? Stop that.”

And seeing that Ivar seemed not to have a failing eyesight, Sigurd was even more confused than before. And then, he remembered Hemming’s words, that his brother will have changes within him even if he fully recovers. He thought that perhaps the effect was mind-altering and will pass in a short while, and so, he played along, “Well, I was merely testing how easily you can catch me.”

Ivar laughed more, his countenance like a child, and said, “Sigurd is faster than you are. I can’t catch him no matter what I do.”

And then Ivar’s expression started to change from joy into sorrow, “Sigurd hates me.” And tears fell from his eyes. “He hates me so much, he wants to kill me.”

And he sobbed unrestrained, such uninhibited show of his emotions as Sigurd had never seen before.

“He wants me to die,” Ivar cried. Then he started to reach for Sigurd’s knife. “Give it to me, Hvitserk. Give it to me!”

Sigurd threw the knife into the floor beyond his brother’s reach and held Ivar close in his arms, tears falling from his eyes as he finally recognized the result of his folly, of the many years of cruelty he had imposed upon his brother by withholding his love. For Ivar might not have died but the poison caused him to lose his mind.

And as his brother sobbed in his arms, Sigurd consoled himself by thinking that perhaps this was temporary, that perhaps it will pass. And so, he forced himself to calm down and said unto him, “Why does it matter if he hates you? Sigurd is stupid and not worth dying for.”

Hearing that, Ivar’s said, “But he is right. I’m an ugly, stupid, crippled monster who must be thrown to the wolves. Why aren’t you ashamed of me, brother? How can you love me as I am? Look at me. See how hideous Ivar is.”

Sigurd held him even closer and said, “No, you’re not. Don’t you remember how your wife chose you above him? Above me and Ubbe? She even passed Bjorn for you.”

“That’s because she’s a strange woman,” Ivar told him. “She’d rather settle for a repugnant cripple as long as she can keep him all to herself, for a beautiful man is sure to attract many rivals on her part.”

His brother’s logic was sound but quite untrue and Sigurd knew how to disprove it. “And how many women had she killed on your account?”

Ivar was quiet, for there were indeed numerous who had died. Sigurd could still remember their pretty heads adorning the pikes of Dublin’s borders. And seeing that his brother has calmed, Sigurd said unto him,

“You’re not hideous, you’re beautiful. If you look at your reflection in the water, you’ll see that I’m not lying. And you’re not stupid. You’re the wisest man in the world. So don’t think of Sigurd’s words and believe only in me. He is the stupid one, undeserving of your grief and heartache.”

And when Ivar leaned further into his chest, Sigurd was once more regretful, for if only he had been honest with his feelings before, he could have held his brother like this a thousand times more without visiting such tragedy upon him. But there was nothing to be done for the past was over, and so, he pulled Ivar to lie on the bed with him and held him close.

As they lay together, Ivar wiped his tears with the back of his hand and gazed upon his brother closely. And then he smiled and said, “No matter how many times I look at you, I can’t help but think of him.” And as Sigurd’s heart started to beat faster, Ivar whispered to him, “Do you want to know my secret? I have always kept it from you for I do not wish to anger you or lose your love.”

His curiosity getting the better of him, Sigurd said, “Whatever it is, I love you too much to get angry with you, so say it. I wish to know.”

“Ever since I could remember, I have always loved Sigurd,” Ivar said, his voice gentle but unrestrained. “But we all know how much he hates me, so I kept it to myself and endured my misery. But when you came to me and told me that you loved me, I was very happy, for you resemble him perfectly.”

And as those words sank deep into him, Sigurd’s eyes were filled with tears, for he realized that all of his heartache was his own doing. And yet he thought of Hvitserk, of his older brother’s numerous sacrifices, and so, his happiness was blunted. Still pretending to be his brother, he said,

“So does that mean that you truly have no love for me? That you only went with it because I look like him?”

And Ivar laughed to that shaking his head, “Of course not!”

To his surprise, Ivar climbed over him, pinning him down. And Sigurd found that he was cornered and his limbs could not move, fully overpowered by his little brother. For despite his disability, Ivar was an extremely strong man.

And so, he looked to the other bed, fearing that their brothers would wake and find him and his little brother in this position. But both Ubbe and Hvitserk were fast asleep. For a moment, he was anxious that Hvitserk could have heard them, but then he remembered Hemming’s potion.

“Why are you looking away?” Ivar asked his hands now cupping Sigurd’s cheeks. “Is there something in there that’s more interesting than me?”

“W-Well,” Sigurd stammered. “You’re avoiding my question.”

Ivar merely giggled some more and rolled off of him. And as he sat up, Sigurd remembered that one night on the cabin, for this situation was very much like it when his brother was also out of his mind. And oh, how he hoped that his brother’s plight would be the same as that time, that his madness would only be temporary and his healthy mind would be restored once more.

After a few moments, Ivar finally stopped his giggling and he looked to his older brother once again, and he said, 

“Maybe it was because of the closeness of our age that made me so attached to the memory of him. And that’s why I cannot forget.

“But I love you, Hvitserk, I truly do. I love you and desire you and I don’t think I could ever live without you. Everything I have and all that I am is because of you, for you inspire me, believe in me and make me a better man. You helped me shed all my fears, pushed me to follow my dreams and ultimately achieve greatness. I feel so alive when I’m with you, and in your presence, I am always loved and wanted. We quarrel sometimes, but it makes me cherish you all the more, for I love you more when you speak your mind. And yet…”

And Ivar’s face was saddened once more as he said,

“I don’t know why I keep longing for him.”

Sigurd felt as though his heart was being pierced, and yet there was nothing he could do. For this was the result of his own folly, his cowardice. For had he been braver, kinder, gentler, less prideful and less prone to anger, this wouldn’t be their fate.

“When I touch you, when I feel your lips on mine, I am renewed and made whole and it is wonderful, mayhap greater than the glory of Valhalla. And yet there’s this guilt gnawing at the back of my mind, for there are times when I cannot help but think of him.

“To ease this feeling, I take it out on my enemies. I kill them in the most agonizing way possible to prolong their suffering, for by doing so, it is as though I am the one being sacrificed, and I am satisfied for I must atone for my guilt. For how could my heart be so unfaithful to the man I love?”

And he turned his eyes to Sigurd, still brimming with tears, as he said,

“Can you forgive me, Hvitserk? Can you forgive someone so callous and so shameless? I want to erase him from my mind and yet I can’t. His words should mean nothing to me, and yet my heart still yearns for his approval as though it belongs to him. It’s been like this for years and years and years and I feel like dying and yet I can’t!”

And when Ivar started to pull on his braids, Sigurd was alarmed and held his brother’s hands back. It was a little too late, for some clumps of hair had been pulled off to the root, the ferocity of it drawing blood. And so, he took Ivar in his arms and held him tight as his brother cried his heart out, his embrace stopping his little brother from hurting himself even further.

“I forgive you. Of course, I forgive you,” Sigurd said, not shedding his pretense. “So I’ll help you out.”

And when Ivar looked to him with those wide eyes, his heart was filled with so much remorse that he said,

“You can forget Sigurd by denying his existence. Never acknowledge him even in your memories, for he brings you no joy but pain. Think only of the good times and see – he will vanish completely. When you remember his cruelty, remind yourself that it wasn’t real. Whenever you feel your desire for him, know that it was me, your Hvitserk. And then you will be happy and all your guilt will disappear. It shouldn’t be difficult. For he and I, we look almost exactly alike, don’t we?”

Upon hearing that, Ivar stopped his sobbing, and he laughed loudly though the tears remained in his eyes. “You’re right. I can do that.”

Sigurd took his handkerchief and wiped his brother’s tears away, and Ivar smiled and said unto him, “I love you, Hvitserk.”

His tears fell, the pain squeezing his heart. But even so, Sigurd answered, “I love you too.”

They remained that way for a long while, Sigurd craddling Ivar in his arms as though rocking a child. When his little brother was in slumber once more, he laid him down gently and wiped the sweat from his face and some of the blood from his scalp that had flowed into his cheeks.

In his heart, Sigurd resolved that he must follow through this time, that he would no longer think of his own yearning for it only destroyed the very person he loved and those whom he cherished.

And so, he arose and went outside to summon Vigrid and Guthrum. For Vigrid was Ivar’s most trusted warrior and confidante, one who loved his king truly and would guard him with his life. And Guthrum loved Hvitserk, for his uncle was even dearer to him than his own father. Lastly, he looked to Hemming who merely nodded in understanding, and the Frisian lord left the king’s side to return to where Ubbe was.

Upon seeing that his brothers were in very good hands, Sigurd went back to his encampment and spent his time with his own Vikingrs who were quite mystified at his demeanor, for they found him less irritable than before. And he merely smiled and let them tease him, much to their surprise.

When the armies convened once again, Sigurd quietly observed the proceedings and allowed his brother Ubbe to speak for him and his warriors. It was agreed that the main Danish army shall fight alongside the Frisians, certainly a surprise but a welcome one to King Rurik and his nobles. And so, they prepared for their departure.

As the Great Army marched to the shore to embark, everyone was quite in awe for Ivar had changed, his mien more charismatic and seemingly divine, more otherworldly, more beautiful than before. And he rode at the head of his army astride his dark horse, his unbraided hair falling to his waist and swaying in the breeze uninhibited.

Halfdan Hvitserk had changed as well, though not visible from afar. For his face remained perfect as it always was, beautiful and fey and without any deformity, only that his left eye was now less blue than the right.

Sigurd knew of the reasons of such changes but he remained as quiet as a ghost. And he failed to show indignation or any semblance of reaction when Ivar said, “I have three brothers – Ubbe and Hvitserk who were sons of my father by mother Aslaug, and Bjorn who was the son of my father by his first wife Lagertha.”

Ubbe looked to his youngest brother questioningly, gestured to Sigurd, and said, “We have another brother, our father’s third son by our mother, the one born after Hvitserk and born before you. Don’t you remember that?”

To that, Ivar only laughed loudly, his countenance like a child, and he looked to Sigurd and said, “I’m sorry! How could I forget? This one is my brother Hvitserk.”

When Ubbe’s brows knotted to that, Hvitserk only shrugged and told their oldest brother. “Just play along. This is probably for the best.”

And so, confusions notwithstanding, the great fleet left the Frisian realm, two hundred dragon ships filled with thousands of noble raiders ready to sack hapless kingdoms once again. This time, their trajectory was headed towards the northern parts of Britannia where the White King Olaf was laying siege to the realm of the Brythons and the Picts.

-

In the dead of the night, Artgal son of Dyfnwal looked upon the shore, holding a torch in his hand. There was neither fear nor uncertainty upon his face, his posture as fierce and as valorous as a terrible bear. And yet deep in his heart, he was greatly troubled for his dreams were filled with terror.

As he looked at the encampment of Amlaib Conung from afar, he remembered the vision he had which had yanked him from his slumber. For the head of the Pictish king Causantin came to him in his sleep and said thus –

_Woe you, O rival mine! For though my demise brought you joy, I still rejoice upon my lonely pike. For your head shall soon be by my side, your people chained with mine. Mayhap, our headless bodies will dance in the breeze, and our heads gaze at the sight, and the two of us shall sing our laments together, our voices waft along the heathens’ border._

He gritted his teeth as his hold on the torch grew tighter. For he had no need of such a disheartening sign. He knew that victory was already at hand, for this is already the fourth month of the siege and Amlaib’s men had started to falter, their supplies soon to be used up.

And he reminded himself of his great advantage, for no foreign leader had ever succeeded to take Alt Clut. This fortress was impregnable, a natural stronghold used even by the Romans themselves. His supplies were more than adequate as well, enough to feed two thousand men for a year. And so, he breathed out his misgivings, his confidence restored once more.

As he turned back to his castle to rest, a messenger came running to him. At a distance behind the man was a large host, and he smiled in recognition. For the king of Chaisil had allied to him and had now arrived with his warriors, although quite later than expected. And he was a little surprised for the Irish monarch wasn’t wearing his precious crown, the one set with rubies and pearls, a gift from the High King of Munster. The king of the Brythons dismissed such small detail and gestured to the messenger who then announced thus,

“My King Artgal, peace be upon you. Here comes my King Mael Gualae, his wife, sons and daughters, along with his nobles, warriors and peasants, and their supplies. He wishes to talk to you in private, for there are very important matters to discuss.”

Artgal frowned to that, for his Irish ally had clearly violated their agreement. And so he said, “No, let him say what he must right here and now, for I am not pleased with this rabble. Our terms stipulated soldiers – only soldiers. Not these lot who can neither fight nor defend and still eat up our valuable resources.”

Mael Gualae heard that quite clearly for the British king’s voice was loud. And so, he conceded, waved the messenger off, and then said, “There is no time to strictly honor agreements, dear Artgal, for I and my people must flee.”

And when King Artgal’s brows knotted to that, Mael Gualae continued, “Amlaib’s allies have come, hundreds of ships of heathen warriors, probably the same heathens who ravaged the Irish mainland and the brought the English to their knees. And along with them is one of their kings who might be familiar to you – Amlaib’s brother, Imar.”

Upon hearing the name of the terrible Dublin king, Artgal shuddered, his grip on the torch involuntarily slackening that his bodyguard had to take it from his hand. And he opened his mouth only to close it once more, so overcome by fear was he.

“But Alt Clut cannot be conquered,” said Mael Gualae, his desperation showing. “With all my heart, with all in my soul, and with all my being, I truly believe that. This kingdom will be the last that will stand strong against these heathens and defeat them once and for all.”

Seeing his ally’s slightly rattled demeanor, Artgal forced himself to regain his bearings and nodded. “You’re right, my friend. Alt Clut shall stand strong. We will fight to our last breath if need be.”

And he offered his hand to the Irish king and said, “Together. Come what may.”

Mael Gualae nodded to that, swallowing his fear. And even as his hand was trembling, he accepted Artgal’s hand in a strong grip, and repeated the words, “Come what may.”

At the first break of dawn came the sign they had been waiting – the smoke rising from Artgal’s fortress. The White King looked to the stronghold from above and knew that they had succeeded, that it would only be a matter of time before the great battle.

But as he looked to Ragnar’s sons from a distance, Olaf couldn’t help but worry for his brother-in-law, for Ivar seemed to care less and less for his own life. Now, he placed himself at the head of the battle formation to face the foes’ incoming first wave.

Olaf knew that a king must show fearlessness to inspire his warriors, but to deliberately put himself in jeopardy, to treat himself like a disposable berserker who had sworn to die for the glory of Valhalla, it upset the order of things that the White King had painstakingly built.

He could never allow Ivar to die. His brother-in-law was his golden path to conquest, his best strategist, and the face of Dublin’s supremacy. For Ivar was the king that their enemies feared like a God, the leader that their Vikingrs worshipped with the utmost devotion. And his trustworthiness had been tested through the years, never wavering, never disloyal. Thus, he was more precious to the White King than any treasure he could ever have and must be protected at all costs.

His musings were cut short when his son Eyestein sidled up to him and said in a voice so quiet, “Father, nigh is the time we have been waiting for. I know you’re thinking it. When the enemy attacks, I’ll be with my bow at the ready and take him out.”

It took him a while to understand, but when he finally realized the weight of his son’s words, the White King flew into a rage like never before. And without thinking, his fist flew into Eyestein’s face and sent the young man sprawling into the ground. But there was no time to reproach his firstborn for a battle cry soon rose at the enemy’s garrison.

Now, his heart started to beat fast in its anxiety. But his resolve would not bend – never could he allow anyone to destroy the delicate balance he had built, not even his own child. The final conquest for Pictland had only just begun. He could not afford to lose Ivar now.

And so, Olaf rode speedily towards the front, leaving his warriors behind. His commander was a little confused but soon took over.

Thus on the field of battle, the kings of Dublin rode their horses side by side – the White King and the Dark King, two heads of a formidable host, the likes of which the world has never seen before.

When the soldiers of Alt Clut finally opened the gates to take their last stand, Olaf took his axe and raised it with a cry. And as their armies finally clashed, onwards he rode, his blade striking down the Brythons, his fury as terrible as the God of Retribution himself. Yet no one noticed how his eyes darted to the sides and the back from time to time, ever ready to snuff out any signs of treachery.

Beside the White King’s commander, Eyestein shook his head hard, pulling himself from the surprise of his father’s sudden beating and preparing himself from the incoming wave of enemy warriors. As he raised his bow and positioned his arrow, he couldn’t help pointing his blade towards the neck of Ivar son of Ragnar, for such was his desire for a long time now.

For the life of him, he could not fathom how Olaf could pass up an opportunity such as this, the chance of becoming Dublin’s sole ruler. Mayhap it was the fear of retribution from Ivar’s brothers, for everyone knew the ferocity of their vengeance, of their willingness to annihilate and trample kingdoms to the dust all to avenge their father’s death.

And yet, accidents happen all the time. The sons of Ragnar weren’t immune to the injuries of battle, he surmised, for they were no Gods but mere humans.

Clenching his teeth, Eyestein made to focus his blade. And yet as he was ready to take his shot, Olaf’s head popped all of a sudden, blocking his view. And his father turned to him, his eyes afire.

They gazed at each other for a short while – green against green, as hard as steel in their resolve.

Seeing his father’s determination, Eyestein lowered his arrow and the White King glared at him before turning back to the enemy once again.

Olaf’s son took a deep breath and consoled himself, for this may yet be part of a greater stratagem at hand. And so, he licked the blood from his lips, repositioned his arrow, and told himself, “ _Patience. Not yet.”_

The sun rose high upon the heavenly firmament, the golden disc witnessing the loud cry for battle resounding throughout the Brythonic fortress. For Artgal’s desperation rose a fury among his soldiers like never before.

Upon the night of Mael Gualae’s arrival, their supplies were suddenly burnt, all their provisions reduced to ashes. Faced with the prospect of death by starvation or death by the sword, the British king chose the latter. And so, he opened his gates and railed onto the enemy as though possessed by the Devil himself.

And yet, woe was to him, for as soon as his main army marched out, his archers started falling from the towers, viciously attacked by an invisible foe. Caught by their own momentum, both cavalry and infantry could not halt in their assault save for Maele Gualae who managed to stay at the side, his warriors standing down.

In his confusion, King Artgal turned his eyes towards the fortress and found the cross of Alt Clut removed from the ramparts, replaced by raven banners. And yet Maele Gualae rode back to whence they came, oblivious of the enemy therein.

Despite the confusion, there was nothing he could do now but fight, fight to the death if need be. And so, Artgal mustered all his courage and rode on, his hand gripping his sword and slashing the enemy with a wild abandon. When his horse finally faltered, struck by Frisian arrows, he jumped out of it and struck down as many heathens as he could. And his strength never wavered even as his heart was crushed, even when his sons’ heads flew into the skies as their necks met Amlaib’s blade.

All of a sudden, a long chain wrapped around his neck. No matter how he resisted, the strength of the hand behind the weapon overwhelmed him, and so, he could do no more but brace himself as he was dragged along by the horse and it’s rider. And as he raised his eyes, his hands pulling upon the chain to prevent himself from choking, he noticed his captor’s long dark hair flowing in the wind and on his head the previously missing crown of the Irish king.

Confused, Artgal looked closer and found that his ally never went back to the fortress, for hanging astride the horse was Maele Gualae himself, his back bent on an impossible position, mayhap broken, his mouth burbling with blood as he fought against a slow, agonizing death.

As the British king choked and fought to breathe, his captor slightly turned his head towards him. He then stopped all his resistance for he knew he had been truly conquered, without a chance for respite or escape. For before him was the dreaded Imar of Dublin smiling upon him.

And yet as Artgal resigned himself for his impending doom, a wayward arrow struck the Dublin king’s horse and it fell dead into the ground. Imar fell with it and yet he only laughed, seemingly delighted, before picking the horse apart with his axe. And to the British king’s surprise, his enemy did not stand, unable to do so, for the rumors were true – he really was a cripple.

Imar dragged himself out of the horse and crawled, fast as a serpent, pulling both Artgal and Mael Gualae with him, for the Irish king’s neck was also chained. Seeing his enemy’s disability, Artgal was hopeful once more.

And so, he gathered his strength once again and resisted the pull. But the Dublin king still overpowered him, thus, Artgal took a sword from a nearby body and moved to strike. But Imar merely evaded him, still giggling like a child, and pulled on the chain once more before hacking the British king’s arms with his axe. Not yet contented, Imar hacked down Artgal’s legs as well, rendering him completely immobile.

Now that both kings could no longer resist him, Imar resumed his crawling till he reached a mound. And Artgal’s misery was multiplied, for before him was no small hill of dirt but of bodies piled up along with a huge heap of bloody weapons, armor, and treasures at the side.

Imar seemed oblivious to the carnage and pulled both kings into it. First, he took Male Gualae and forced him to sit. And seeing that the king was unable to do as he wanted, Imar broke his back once more, this time in the opposite direction, and by that, the Irish king finally breathed his last.

Unmindful of Artgal’s terror, Imar turned to him and pulled him to sit beside the dead king, his back supported by the mound of corpses. The British king closed his eyes, waiting for further pain, and yet there was none. And so, he cracked an eye open, quite fearful of what he might see. And he was quite confused, for Imar merely sat up and started weaving something out of the grass, singing a lullaby that the British king failed to understand.

When he was finished, Imar placed the crown of grass on Maele Gualae’s head, bowed to him in mock respect, and told him in the Irish tongue, “Here’s your new crown, Your Highness. I must say, you look more dashing than before. Mayhap, this is because of the craftsmanship in this new diadem you have, made by the dwarves it seems.”

He knew it was unmanly to do so, but the British king couldn’t help but sob, so wretched was he. For never in his dreams did it ever occur to him that he would be bested by someone like this. In his mind, he never pictured Imar to be a cripple or a madman. But here he was – a crippled madman. And if suicide weren’t a mortal sin, Artgal would have already killed himself rather than suffer this shame.

All of a sudden, there was the sound of a pair of boots crunching and Artgal opened his eyes once more. This time, there was Albann who lifted his helmet, crouched down and kissed his brother despite his filthy state. The British king knew a little of the heathen tongue and so he understood when Albann said,

“Hm, I see that you caught both our enemy kings. Did you enjoy yourself?”

And Imar smilingly replied, “I did. But I was polite and treated them with the utmost respect. I also made them new crowns. Look.”

Albann only smiled to that, kissed his brother on the cheek once more, and lifted him off the ground. Imar stretched his hand to take the crown off of Artgal’s head, then placed it on Albann’s head, his finger’s delicately threading on his brother’s golden locks. Imar then leaned on his brother gently and whispered something to his ear that British king could no longer hear.

Artgal was quite surprised by such show of tenderness between the two, for in his mind, the heathens were no humans but cruel devils incapable of affection. Perhaps he was wrong in his thinking, the same way he had been wrong about Imar.

And so, as his blood soon gushed out of his many wounds, he closed his eyes and accepted death with a sigh. And as the days of his life started to flash through his mind, he realized that humans are indeed prone to error, their understanding quite limited and always fell short of the divine mandate. And yet how wonderful it was, for it was those imperfections and fragilities that made people human, both stupid and wise, both perfect and flawed, creatures both beautiful and terrible in their magnificence.

Thus, the British king died, his countenance no longer troubled. For he ultimately realized that there was life even in the face of death, joy in the midst of suffering, a hope of a second chance despite death’s finality. _Maybe in the next life_ …

-

Upon the sun’s setting, sweet smoke rose into the sky as the sacrifices burned and bled on where they stood – on the ground, on the pikes, on the stakes, and on the ramparts.

The offerings were numerous for it was all in great thanks to the Allfather Odin for blessing their endeavor, to the Rememberer Mimir for his wisdom guiding everyone’s actions, to the Divine Master Freyr for the abundance he has provided, and to Tyr, the Great Commander, for leading the Vikingr coalition to victory.

Everyone was in high spirits, especially the Frisians, for their profits were great. And as the more mercantile lords feasted, they talked of their revenues and monitored their subordinates who categorized the new thralls according to their quality. This was the greatest haul of slaves they had taken so far in just one raid, and also the most varied. For the realm of Alt Clut contained not only the native Brythonic peoples but also Picts, Irish, Jutes, Welsh, Angles and Saxons.

As the festivities continued, Sigurd sat on the British king’s patio, still wearing the Irish king’s garb though he had removed the disguise on his face. His mind was still contemplating for he knew of some survivors who had escaped the onslaught – Rhun son of Artgal who had crossed the River Clyde during the battle, and Maele Gualae’s daughter who had reportedly thrown herself at the mercy of Fair Kjetill, the king of Mann. The two didn’t seem to be of great threat and so, the coalition decided not to pursue them anymore, and yet, he still thought that they should have.

As he pondered on the matter, his commander came up to him and said, “My king, pardon the intrusion.” And when Sigurd only nodded, the warrior continued, “Here comes a shieldmaiden from the warband of your brother Ivar. She wishes to speak to you.”

Sigurd raised his eyes to look at the woman and he recognized her immediately, for this was the commander of the Red Company of his brother’s guard. And so he gestured to her and commanded, “Speak.”

To his surprise, she knelt to him and said, “My name is Hetha, daughter of Hakon, and I wish to pledge myself into your service, _my_ king.”

Astonished, he scrutinized her countenance to see her sincerity, and she gulped both in fear and awe. He was momentarily distracted, for in a near distance, he noticed a crowd, the entirety of her company as well as other warriors, both male and female, from other warbands.

Seeing that he had seen her companions, the shieldmaiden gestured to those at the back and continued,

“We all wish to serve you, King Sigurd, son of the great Ragnar Lothbrok and the Seeress Kraka, one whom the Jormungadr itself has passed through his eye. For we have seen your prowess in battle, your regiments blessed by the mighty sword of Tyr. By such, we wish to partake in your glory and honor, to serve you and die for you, if you will have us.”

Sigurd thought upon it and then honestly said unto her, “After dividing the spoils, I’m going back to our homeland and it will not be a day of glory. For I have decided that defending Denmark has more weight than the thrills of conquest. Even so, would you still be willing to serve me?”

“Yes, King,” she replied quickly. “And worry not about my company’s allegiance to Dublin for I have sought King Ivar’s permission and he agreed.”

And she looked to him in utter desperation. The company with her seemed quite expectant and nervous as well. Finally, Sigurd realized that these warriors were exhausted of the endless wars they have fought in. Rich from their long battle careers, they now wish to retire and bask in the bounty of the treasures they had gathered.

Thus, Sigurd told her, “I accept your service, Hetha daughter of Hakon.”

And she smiled in immense gratitude, took his hand and kissed it many times.

Seeing that their leader had been accepted, the entirety of the Red Company and the other warriors knelt as well and said in unison, “Please accept us also.”

And Sigurd smiled to that, amused, and said, “I will, but since you are too many, you must build your own boat, for I cannot fit all of you in mine.”

Hearing that, the warriors erupted into cheers, very satisfied and relieved. And he merely smiled at them in appreciation, for he understood their circumstance.

When the Vikingrs were finally dispersed, Sigurd stood up and headed towards the room his warriors had prepared for him within the interior of Artgal’s castle. But as he passed by the courtyard, he saw the shieldmaiden once more talking to a tall figure who stood by the stone pillar holding the castle's wing. There was no mistaking the man for his redheaded mane was unmistakeable, for he was no other than Ivar's scout commander Vigrid.

Hetha looked to him in utmost joy, saying, “King Sigurd has accepted me in his service, and now we can finally go home. Peace at last for the both of us and our children. You must come with me, husband, for this is the ultimate opportunity. And worry not about King Ivar for I shall ask him to release you from his service. I'll beg and plead for you if need be. Surely, he will give you respite for you have served him all your life.”

And yet her happiness was diminished for he shook his head, gentle but unyielding, for he said, “Forgive me, my love, but I can't. I cannot abandon my king.”

“Of course you can,” she insisted, he voice now starting to shake. “If you truly love me, you can.”

And upon his silence, tears fell from her eyes, and she said, “How could you do this to me? After all the years we spent together? I gave up everything for you, my honor, my homeland, and I have no regrets for you are my heart's desire. And yet you will choose him over me - your king who never loved you, never once looked at you!”

And perhaps due to her feelings unsaid for years, she finally broke and screamed at him,“You never loved me! You never did!”

When she fell onto the floor sobbing uncontrollably, Vigrid sighed and knelt to her position, his eyes filled with sorrow. And yet when he embraced her, her hand flew into the air and struck his face. Even so, he took her in his arms tenderly as she cried her heart out. Finally tired of her weeping, she said unto him, her voice hoarse, “Have you no care for me at all? Have you no love for me?”

“Of course, I love you, sweet mother of my children,” Vigrid answered. “But know this - when you first met me, I was already a warrior and you wanted me for what I can give. But when he first met me, I was a slave. And yet he called me by my name without regard for my station. And then he freed me, lifted me up, made me into what I am today.”

When she looked to him, there were tears in his eyes. And yet without his voice faltering, Vigrid continued, “Your words are true, for he never saw me the way I saw him, never loved me the way I love him, and yet I am content. For this love of mine is lowly and does not deserve reciprocation. Even so, I love him all the same, more than anything, more than anyone, more than you, more than the Gods.”

And he lifted her chin in his hand and looked into her eyes. Sigurd looked on as he kissed her gently before whispering, “My sweet Hetha, my darling, farewell.”

And then he stood up and left. Sigurd stayed there for a while, watching as she gathered herself, for it seemed as though he was looking at his own reflection. For the shieldmaiden was also firm in her resolve. No matter her feelings on the matter, she stood by her will no matter the pain. And when she rose and departed to join her companions, Sigurd saw the acceptance in her eyes though her heart was broken.

Finally, he arrived to his designated room, and upon seeing the bed, his exhaustion got the better of him and he immediately took off the Irish outer garments, placed his sword underneath his pillow, and sank onto the mattress.

As he lay by himself, he remembered his little brother’s jolly countenance upon the feast, no longer plagued with guilt or heartache but truly happy in Hvitserk’s arms. And despite his longing still there, Sigurd was greatly contented, his bitterness all gone, truly separated from his heart just like how Vigrid and his wife had parted ways.

During their sea voyage towards Artgal’s realm, he was worried about the state of Ivar’s mind. But during the war meetings and the battle itself, he soon found that his little brother was still very able to govern, strategize, hold himself together, and even surpass those other kings with supposedly sound minds. He was truly well-made by the Gods, Sigurd thought with pride.

And though saddened by their incoming separation, he was very confident that his brother will be well-cared for by Hvitserk and Vigrid, will be well-protected by his brother-in-law Olaf, and will be happy without his presence.

For a time, he still thought of spending more time with him. And yet he also knew that the longer he stayed, the stronger his longing will become. And so, he directed his heart to stay resilient in its resolve. Ivar would be happy without him, immensely happy. For his presence will only cast doubts on the seeds of illusion he had planted on his brother’s mind. Better for him to simply disappear to avoid another disaster.

And with that in mind, his eyes started to close and he fell into a dreamless sleep.

He awoke upon feeling kisses on his forehead, his cheeks, his eyelids, his nose and his lips, of the sensation of fingers running through his hair unravelling his braids. Still drowsy, Sigurd turned to his side and sighed. And yet, he felt strong arms embracing him from behind, of lips pressed onto his neck, onto his shoulder, then back to his neck.

Still half-asleep, he only sighed once more as he was pulled to lie on his back, his brows knitting very slightly even as a strong but gentle weight settled atop him, of fingers touching his palm before soft lips pressed kisses therein. He was almost dragged back into slumber until another kiss was pressed into his cheek and a voice spoke, “Wake up, Hvitserk.”

His eyes opened to that and he was met with his little brother’s smiling face. “Hvitserk.”

Sigurd blinked to that, still thinking he was not fully awake. For the sunlight filtering through the windows was too bright, it’s reflection upon the surrounding white curtains so excessively light, almost as unreal as the softness of the bed where his body was pressed upon. And yet Ivar’s warm breath upon his face felt very real, so was the curious look on his face as he gazed upon Sigurd’s eyes intently as though seeing something therein.

“Good morning,” Sigurd managed to say, his eyes closing once more.

But Ivar laughed and pressed more kisses into his face, saying, “Don’t go back to sleep, brother. Play with me.”

And so, Sigurd chuckled despite himself, and then he said, “Let me wake up properly for a moment. Then we’ll go outside and find a chess board.”

“But chess is not the only game in the world,” Ivar told him. And then he placed his hand between his older brother’s legs and squeezed. And when Sigurd gasped at the sudden sensation, Ivar laughed once more and said, “See? You want to play.”

But despite his body being roused greatly, Sigurd remembered all that he has done, of how he caused his little brother to become like this, how he caused Hvitserk to become blind on one eye, how he dishonored their brother Ubbe due to his rage. Thus, he was fully awakened and his resolve returned, though he had to think fast to redirect his brother to Hvitserk. And so, he said unto him,

“Alright, let’s play. But first, we must bathe, so please let me up.”

“But we already took a bath last night,” Ivar told him, his body pressing down on Sigurd’s even closer. “You’re being very forgetful now, aren’t you Hvitserk?”

Sigurd racked his mind to find an answer to that and yet he can’t, for his body started to betray him. And as he tried to fathom how his little brother even got to his bed, he closed his eyes, for Ivar’s hand had slipped inside his breeches grabbing ahold of his sex and started to play with it till the first drops of pleasure started to drip.

But despite the sweet sensation of his brother’s touch drowning him, Sigurd resisted for he was not used to this. For he had never been the recipient of such affections – he was always the one acting upon it.

And yet as he tried to get up, he found himself cornered, overpowered by his brother’s immense strength, such strength he had never known before. If he really wanted to break free, he would have no choice but to hurt his little brother badly. And that was something he would never do. He hurt Ivar too much already.

And so, he lay back in surrender and allowed his brother to do as he pleased, closed his eyes as Ivar’s gentle kisses started to deepen, never forceful and yet irresistible. And as his undergarments started to fall away, he ultimately realized that the sweet little brother he knew in the past was a guarded one, subtle and always calculated. Now that Ivar was freed from the confines of the persona he had created, he could now indulge in his true desires uninhibited.

Sigurd found that feared that greatly, and yet with fear also comes anticipation. This was against his resolve and yet it was too good to pass. And so, as his brother’s mouth started to travel over his body, he vaguely told himself to apologize to Hvitserk later for he had lost himself already.

And so, he indulged himself in the sweetness of his brother’s touch, greatly relishing the way Ivar’s lips started pressing on the insides of his thighs as he parted them tenderly. And he sighed, his body heating impossibly like never before, as his brother’s tongue started tasting his sex. And when his brother’s fingers started to breach him, he remembered Ubbe and thought that perhaps his elder brother had tricked him. For being underneath another man was no sacrifice at all – how could it be when it felt this good?

In time, his brother’s sex slipped into him and Sigurd bit his lip at the initial pain of their joining. At that same moment, Ivar pressed a kiss on his lips and whispered to him, “I love you.” And yet as he opened his lips to reply, Sigurd found that he could not, for his mouth was claimed so swiftly.

Truly, he lost himself, fully drowned in both the pleasure of their togetherness and the fullness of his heart. And as his brother started to move faster and faster, Sigurd allowed himself to be swept away. Together, without the aid of the Valkyries, they reached the realm of Valhalla, the Halls of the Aesir, mayhap to the surprise of the Allfather himself, tasted the abundant fruits of Freyr’s bounty, then back to Midgard, then back again.

A gentle breeze passed through the window slightly opening the curtains at the side. Sigurd smiled, basking in the warmth of their bodies still pressed so intimately together. And as his brother kissed him once again, his mind contemplated his state and decided that whether or not he was in dishonor, he remained grateful for this chance at happiness, such joy that he shall take with him to the grave.

Ivar didn't seem to think of such morbidities, for his countenance seemed curious. And he stared closely into Sigurd's eyes as though reflecting upon something therein. Finally, he drew something on his brother's cheek with his fingers, his touch so fond and so tender. And yet Sigurd failed to comprehend what it was.

Indeed there was no time to ponder some more for the curtains were abruptly opened and there was Hvitserk who said unto him, "Well, isn't this a nice parting gift?"

And when Sigurd opened his mouth to say a retort, Ubbe who was also present merely smiled and said, "Indeed it is."

As the sun rose further into the sky, Sigurd sat still as Ubbe dried his hair, his older brother’s countenance no longer tired nor forlorn as he told Sigurd thus, “I’m so glad you and our brothers finally made amends. You must all remember that we must always stand united for we are a family.”

And as he finished, he combed Sigurd’s locks with his fingers and teasingly said, “It’s good, isn’t it?”

Sigurd merely chuckled to that, enjoying the sight of Ivar sitting on the grass playing with the crowns of the conquered kings. In his heart, he realized that perhaps his older brother’s trick was not a trick after all but a lesson, one meant to teach him the advantage of humility over pride.

For the best things in life were usually barred by one’s inhibitions caused by arrogance, and when one shed it, the Gods will show the path towards true happiness, towards joy unparalleled.

As their youngest brother lay on the ground, basking in the sunlight, Hvitserk who had been listening at the side said, “Are you really going back to Denmark now?”

“Yes,” Sigurd replied. “My warriors are anxious to go home to their families and so am I. How about you?”

Hvitserk shrugged saying, “I’ll go back to York, that much is certain, but I’ll be visiting Dublin from time to time. I am already secure with Guthrum as my only heir, but the succession within the Irish realms is still uncertain for our brother has many sons with his wife, and only the Gods know how many he had sired with those other women who escaped his wife’s wrath.”

Ubbe laughed loudly to that shaking his head, for he himself was guilty of such deeds.

Their conversation was cut short when Hemming emerged from the open door, his body still very wet and fully naked. And he walked towards his brother-in-law and said, “Haven’t you said your goodbyes already? Come back for the water is still deliciously heated.”

And when Ubbe only laughed, Hemming pulled down the only piece of garment covering his nakedness. “Come now. If you don’t go back at once, I’m going to sneak behind your back and sleep with your wife.”

Ubbe only shrugged, fully untroubled, but asked, “I have ten wives. So which one?”

Hemming raised one pretty eyebrow at that and replied, “The one who is neither my sister nor my cousin.”

And Ubbe chuckled and asked further, “Again which one?”

Hemming growled angrily, his patience at its limit, and proceeded to pull Ubbe to him who merely laughed. And together, their elder brother and the Frisian lord returned from whence they came, vaguely talking of a wine country called Burgundy whose duke was an enemy of the Frankish king, before disappearing into the Roman baths below.

Hvitserk shook his head to that and yet there was a smile on his face. And when he raised his eyes to Sigurd, there was something upon his face that was a tad incomprehensible. And he asked, “How are you feeling?”

Sigurd was silent for a moment and then answered, “A little sore, but other than that, I’m fine.”

Hvitserk chuckled, looked intently on his younger brother’s face, and then said, “It's been a while since our brother...well, had his mind altered. We've slept together as usual but he never tried that with me, that thing he did to you.”

And when Sigurd looked to him questioningly, Hvitserk continued, “Perhaps you awaken something different in him. And that is a good thing, for what he wanted from you is one I could never give. My pride is too great for that.”

Sigurd did not know what to make of that and so he asked, “Are you not angry with me? With what I have done?”

His older brother merely smiled and said, “I admit I am jealous. I have always been a jealous man. But now I understand that loving is not owning. And though I might kill another man who sleeps with him, I could never do that to you. I might threaten you with my sword but I could never strike, for you are my brother too and I love you.”

And without a prompt, Sigurd’s heart was filled with love once more. There was a little regret as well for he knew now that his past resentment was misplaced. And ultimately Ubbe was right. They truly were a family, their hearts always full of tenderness for each other, their love constant and unwavering despite the enmities they might have, always forgiving each other’s failures, forever unchanging in their affections despite the time and distance.

Upon such realization, Sigurd smiled and said unto his brother, “I love you too.”

To his great surprise, he felt a pair of strong hands holding his head in place as his lips were claimed. And Sigurd closed his eyes, opening himself to his brother’s tongue as he probed therein. When they separated, Hvitserk seemed to be startled with his own deed and then said, “I was merely trying to ascertain why our brother likes you so.”

Sigurd chuckled to that and then remembered something, “How about Vigrid? Are you not jealous of him at all?”

To which Hvitserk only shrugged and replied, “He’s a redhead.” And when his younger brother looked to him questioningly, he fingered Sigurd’s cheek and continued, “Haven’t you noticed, brother? Our little brother prefers blondes.”

And they both laughed to that, quite amused, though there remained questions in Sigurd’s mind. And as though to answer his wordless query, Hvitserk merely said, "You and I might look almost alike, but it's not a perfect likeness. For you are what you are and I am what I am. Even in his present state, I believe our brother knows that."

Sigurd blinked to that, realizing that his brother knew everything, had heard of what Ivar had confessed to him on that one tragic day. And yet, Hvitserk only smirked with his knowledge.

There were further questions in Sigurd's mind, and yet there was no time for further conversation for the horns already sounded, signalling that he must go ashore, and so he stood and said, “So, it’s time for me to go.”

Hvitserk only nodded in understanding, his countenance truly at peace. But Ivar, upon seeing him walk away, crawled towards Sigurd and clutched onto his leg. “Where are you going, Hvitserk? Are you leaving?”

And Sigurd’s heart was overcome with love once more and tears started to form in his eyes. But he held himself back, lifted his brother from the ground and placed him on Hvitserk’s lap.

As he looked to his older brother, he could see that Hvitserk also felt his pain. And yet he also knew what must be done. And so, he allowed Sigurd to take his hand and placed it to cover Ivar’s eyes.

Swallowing the sadness in his heart, Sigurd kissed his little brother's cheek and then said,

“Let’s play a game. Count from one to a hundred, and when you’re done, you may remove my hand from your eyes. And then you can come and find me.”

To his relief, Ivar smiled and started to count.

And so, Sigurd turned his back and walked away. And when the ships sailed, tears fell from his eyes, and yet there was no longer grief nor bitterness, only acceptance.

He closed his eyes for a moment and then wiped his face with the back of his hand. As he did so, his fingers touched the pendant on his necklace, Tyr’s cross. Along with it were locks of hair more precious than any jewel. And as he touched its softness, he was reminded of dark hair swaying in the breeze, of a gentle smile so tender and sweet, of eyes as blue as the open sky.

Sigurd smiled to that, his heart reminiscing, as the dragon ships flew like winged serpents above the sea, back to the northern realms where the Vikingrs and their kin abound, to the sweet homeland full of memory.

-

-

It was autumn when they arrived, their garb foreign to their northern kin and yet familiar to those well-travelled.

The man was young, his hair dark as a raven’s wing, eyes as blue as the sea. And he brought two children along, one grown enough to walk, one still a babe asleep on his arms. At the great hall before the Danish king and his subjects, he knelt and said thus,

“My name is Sigtrygg Ivarsson and these are my sons, Ragnar and Ivar. I throw myself upon your mercy, Sigurd Ragnarrsson, greatest and most compassionate of kings, unparalleled in your magnanimity. For I wish to live my days in this realm beloved, away from the fighting between my kinsmen and also to keep safe my children from harm.”

And the king gestured him to stand and then replied, “You are most welcome, nephew. But I wish to ask – how is your father?”

“Quite well,” the prince of Dublin replied, “though many say his sanity is failing. But I believe he is of sound mind, for he still supports the exploits of my uncle Olaf in his continuing conquest of the Pictland realm.”

As he spoke his words, Sigtrygg was only half-aware of everything else for his eyes were fixed on the man before him sitting on the throne, dressed in a king’s finery with a fox tail on his shoulder, jewelled brooches holding the thick cape in place. And yet, it was not the clothes that made him so awe-inspiring. For in the prince’s mind, the king would probably look better without those.

Oblivious to his nephew’s thoughts, Sigurd looked to the back and asked, “And who is that girl with you?”

Sigtrygg regained his bearings, blinking for a bit, and then answered, “This one is Siggy, our youngest sister. And please forgive her if she might be odd, for she was born with a short tongue, and thus cannot speak.”

The king merely nodded to that and the prince bowed in respect.

In the banquet that soon followed, they sat together on the table. Sigtrygg offered the gifts he had prepared to earn the king’s good graces – rare vegetables from the Irish gardens, finely-aged wine, cured meat, sun-dried meat, and the finest grapes from his vineyards. His ploy had succeeded for his uncle seemed pleased enough, though his countenance remained quite cold and unreadable.

And so, he offered a tale for entertainment, one he heard from the Mediterranean realm, and he narrated thus,

“There was once a fox who found some grapes lusciously dangling from above. But no matter what he did, he could not reach it. And so, to ease his want, he told himself, ‘These grapes are sour.’”

Much to his delight, the king laughed, though it could be said that it was out of sarcasm, for he said, “What a stupid fox. If he can’t have it then it must be bad and not worth it. Quite a cover-up for his incompetence, don’t you think so, nephew?”

Sigtrygg swallowed hard, his mind no longer hearing his uncle’s words. For his eyes drank in the king’s form entirely, hair as golden as the sun, his skin so fair mayhap incredibly sweet to the touch, his lips akin to an apple in the summer –

“Nephew?”

The prince awoke from his fantasy but still drunk in his desire, his sex now fully awakened. And since he had forgotten the conversation entirely, he managed a smile and said, “Yes, that is indeed a fine suggestion. You’re right, uncle.”

King Sigurd raised an eyebrow to that, both amused and displeased, the snake in his eye gleaming both ominously and prettily in the flickering torchlight.

At that moment, Siggy nudged the Dublin prince and gestured frantically, reminding her brother of what they had in store. And so, Sigtrygg bid his musicians to play a song.

Now amused by the music, the king forgot his nephew’s stupidity and focused on the performance, and then he started to sample the fruits on the platter. And he picked a grape therein and brought it to his lips.

And as the king bit at the fruit and enjoyed the sweet juices, Sigtrygg could not avert his gaze, could not help wishing that he was the grape wandering into Sigurd’s lips, being savoured by his tongue. Or perhaps it would be better if he could eat that same fruit out of his uncle’s mouth.

The prince sighed, quite ashamed of himself. To bring his arousal down, he forced himself to listen to the song, that same lullaby his father used to sing to him when he was a child.

And yet he was still reminded of the king before him, of the golden locks falling to his shoulders, for the words were thus,

_Yonder the night sky sparkled stars of gold, as gold as the bird on last night’s dream. When I wake, I sing its song. Tonight I sleep and dream again._

-

_-_

_the end_


	13. NOTES AND ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

**ACKNOWLEDGMENT:**

Other than the magical and awe-inspiring source material Ragnarssona þáttr, this fanfic is also conceptually inspired by the following:

**1\. The wonderful, wonderful OSTs from the following shows:**

**\-- Kingdom Themes:**

**Denmark 1 (The arrival of King Olaf and his sister) – ‘Earth’ from 1997-98 anime “Berserk"**

**”** <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5iAViNf9Z4Y>

**Denmark 2 (Sigurd’s Loneliness) – ‘Gattsu’ from 1997-98 anime “Berserk”**

**”** <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dIoILN_KrhU>

**Ireland 1 (Siege of Dublin) – ‘Black Swordsman’ from 2015-17 anime “Berserk”**

**”** <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hiQ7szGFY8w>

**Ireland 2 (Mael Sechnaill’s Dream) – ‘Sword of the Berserker’ from 1997-98 anime “Berserk”**

**”** <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-_-59f9mgfM>

**England 1 (Northumbria: The Two Kings) – ‘Forces’ from 1997-98 anime “Berserk”**

**”** <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NkYYYew8CUI>

**England 2 (Hyngwar beguiles his enemies) – ‘Aria’ from 2015-17 anime “Berserk”**

**”** <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CGcv09G5MYc>

**England 3 (Wessex: The King, the Prince, and the Bishop) – ‘My Brother’ from 2015-17 anime “Berserk”**

**”** <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lBdnti4_UUg>

**Frisia (In Hemming’s Room) – ‘Apasionata’ from sageuk “Moon Lovers: Scarlet Heart Ryeo”**

**”** <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kt6LqmIpwW4>

**Alt Clut (Siege of Dumbarton Rock) – ‘Bakkwo’ from sageuk “Chuno”/“The Slave Hunters”**

**”** <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p4aCyJtGVm4>

**\-- Character Themes:**

**Sigurd – ‘Thou’ from KDrama “I am Legend”**

**”** <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vGzjVxh3Qoo>

**Ivar – ‘Time Flows By’ from sageuk “Six Flying Dragons”**

**”** <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AjveyD45tD8>

**Hvitserk – ‘As Long as I Live’ from sageuk “Kingdom of the Winds”**

**”** <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bT0M9m2_ru0>

**Ubbe – ‘I Remember You’ from sageuk “Moon Lovers: Scarlet Heart Ryeo”**

**”** <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a1DimNBdqZ0>

**\-- Other Themes:**

**Younger Years – ‘Be Your Love’ from sageuk “Moon Lovers: Scarlet Heart Ryeo”**

**”** <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H-5yCKhANEk>

**King Ragnar’s death according to White Hair – ‘Sa Mo’ from sageuk “Book of the Three Han: Jumong, Prince of Legend”**

**”** <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2MrJIAg2sUE>

**Vigrid’s devotion – ‘Naega Suntaekhan Giriya’ from KDrama “Goong”**

**”** <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EGvvnPCkNOg>

**King Aelle’s ascension to Tiw’s Halls – ‘Will Be Back’ from sageuk “Moon Lovers: Scarlet Heart Ryeo”**

**”** <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ly6bG9Xcp0c>

**Princess Blaeja – ‘Yasashisa no Tane’ from anime “Cardcaptor Sakura”**

**”** <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=53018YMTYvQ>

**Alfred and Aethelred – ‘Call of Silence’ from anime “Attack on Titan”**

**”** <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VtguFyOdj2g>

**Ivar’s lullaby – ‘Yoru no Uta’ from anime “Cardcaptor Sakura”**

**”** <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Uwzm6iWNGw0>

**2.** This fanfic is also inspired by **the biography of the great 14th century ruler Timur Kuregen of the Chagatai Khanate, also known as “Tamerlane of Samarkand” or “Timur the Lame”**. Just like our equally great 9th century Scandinavian King Ivar the Boneless, he is also a warrior-politician who cannot walk. He successfully organized the sack of Baghdad and led military campaigns against Persia, Tughlaq India, Anatolia, the Ottoman Empire, and China’s Ming Dynasty. It’s very interesting to note that crippled rulers are very fearsome warriors and brilliant tactical geniuses who caused the downfall of so many kingdoms. (^.^)

**3\. The concept of the Old Gods** outlined in the ongoing dark fantasy Japanese Manga “Berserk”, in the words of the great writer-illustrator Miura Kentarou, paraphrased – ‘ _The Old Gods are the collective superego of our ancestors, their connection to our land, and the sublime representation of how they saw the world. They are part and parcel of our collective consciousness, comprised of the histories, thoughts and dreams of innumerable human souls.’_ (^.^)

**For the sake of this fanfic, Ragnar’s sons represent the Old Gods as follows:**

**\- Bjorn** as **_Thor_ : **Thunder God, a force of nature that comes and goes as he pleases

 **\- Ubbe** as **_Freyr_ : **Fertility God, highly sexual, encourages carnal activities, and can heal believers/give blessing through the act of sex and use of plants; in the same way, Ubbe instigates sexual situations and uses potions and poisons

 **\- Hvitserk** as **_Odin_ (Saxon “Woden”): **The Allfather, highly altruistic but also self-interested and will do anything to achieve greatness; Odin sacrifices an eye and revives Mimir’s head, just like how Hvitserk loses his own eye because of Ivar

 **\- Sigurd** as **_Tyr_ (Saxon “Tiw”): **Battle God, extremely prideful and is Odin’s rival in the hearts of believers; there’s archaeological evidence of the cults of these two Gods (Tiwaz vs Wodanaz) usurping each other, with Odin ultimately winning in the end

 **\- Ivar** as **_Mimir_ (Saxon “Mim”): **Wise God, literal fount of knowledge but ultimately loses his head; Mimir remains wise despite his head getting decapitated; likewise, Ivar’s strategic genius remains despite his subsequent insanity

***Other Norse Divinities:**

**\- Olaf the White** as **_Heimdall_ : **Whitest of the Gods, the Shining God; hence, Olaf is nicknamed The White by his own kinsmen and also called the Light/Fair/Finngaill King by the Irish, Picts and Britons

 **\- Guthrum and Vigrid as _Huginn_ (Thought) and _Muninn_ (Memory): **divine companions given to Odin after he sacrifices his eye to Mimir; Guthrum is the thoughtful nephew while Vigrid is Ivar’s right hand man entrusted with his memories

* * *

**OTHER NOTES:**

1\. Ubbe Ragnarsson is recorded to have been a Duke of Frisia, hence the Latin title Ubbo dux Fresonum, but there is no clear data on his specific relationship with Rurik of Dorestad. So this means that this fanfic is also a fanfic of that part of history. (^.^) Hemming Halfdansson is actually Rurik’s first cousin, but he’s kinda younger in this fanfic, just to make him look cute and to feature some cultural differences between the Danes and Frisians. (^.^)

2\. In some Irish sources, Amlaib Conung (Olaf the White) and Imar (Ivar) are recorded as brothers. Some scholars interpret this as them being “brothers-at-arms”, but I prefer them to be brothers-in-law due to Olaf’s real-life penchant for creating alliances through political marriages. (^.~)

3\. Theories on Ivar’s death:

\- There is a theory that after Olaf the White died, Imar/Ivarr Beinlausi was killed by Eyestein Olafsson in a pretty gruesome fashion – disembowelling him then cutting off his cock and balls. This is said to be the reason why Halfdan of York (Hvitserk) rushed to Dublin, killed Eyestein in revenge, then installed Bardr Ivarrsson as king.

\- The Irish sources say that Imar died on 873 AD, possibly due to disease or old age, but peacefully in his sleep.

\- The English sources say that Ivar died on 870 AD as God’s punishment for Aelle and Edmund’s gruesome murders.

\- There’s also a romantic retelling where Ivar died of disease in Mercia and instructed his beloved commander to bury him on the shore as a talisman to protect the land from invasions. When his body was exhumed and burned by William, Rollo’s grandson, the talisman of protection was gone, thus, the Norman duke was able to conquer all of England and became William the Conqueror.

These accounts are conflicting, therefore, we leave this part ambiguous. (^.^)

* * *

**END NOTE:**

Although this is primarily a work based on Western European lore and historical figures, this fanfiction borrows a lot of elements from Mongol warfare, Chinese filial piety, Korean chunhyang loyalty, Filipino sentimentality, and Japanese samurai devotion. Please forgive me for Asianizing this too much.

***kowtows***

**P.S.** It’s really difficult to have Ivar as the youngest son. Using the historical timeline, this means that he has to marry early and die young. So sad. (T.T) Tbh tho, if King Ivar didn’t die so suddenly on 873 AD, Ireland, the UK, Western Europe, and the world as a whole would have been very different from what it is today. So I hope this story does him even just a tiny bit of justice. Ivar the Boneless is my favorite Viking ruler, military strategist and political negotiator in the sagas and in history. He’s an incredibly awesome dude. (^.^)

**HAIL KING IVAR!**

***kowtows***

**P.P.S.** It’s really a bummer that the show killed Sigurd off very early on. Historically speaking, he shouldn’t die without siring kids. His descendants still sit on Denmark’s throne to this day. Most importantly, the actor was very cute. Why the hell did they kill him off? (>.<)

 **P.P.P.S.** Anyways, this story is very much inspired by Ivar’s character development in Season 6A. Also, he and Hvitserk look so good together (I mean, the actors playing them), thus stirring the slashy thoughts in my dirty mind. Add Sigurd’s cute face and Ubbe’s incredible sex appeal, it’s a very pretty foursome.

\\(^.^)/\\(^.^)/\\(^.^)/\\(^.^)/

**To the real-life historical figures, King Ivar, King Halfdan, King Sigurd, Duke Ubbe, everyone, may your long-departed souls forgive me, Your Highnesses, Your Grace.**

***kowtows***


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